


The Sword in the Darkness

by naturesinmyeye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: #dark fairy tale, #epic tale, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Eventual Sansan, F/M, Showverse, Smut, Violence, all for a purpose, i'm going to crush you, sansan, super natural themes, true fucking love, vengeance, what is a hero anyway?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2018-08-31 15:38:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 64,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8584015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturesinmyeye/pseuds/naturesinmyeye
Summary: A Showverse fic centered around the Hound. Eventual Sansan. Lady Stoneheart rises, aided by Vengeance and a group of forces named the Others. She seeks revenge on those who have wronged House Stark and chooses Sandor Clegane, the fearsome Hound, as her sword.  He is reluctant, but the Lady can be very persuasive and always gets what she wants.  Sansa must be protected and the Hound is bound by a curse to never speak of love or touch her. He is given the promise of a healed face if he can place a Stark back in Winterfell. A dark fairy tale, in which Sandor seeks redemption. Can Honor prevail? Canon compliant until The Broken Man episode of season 6. Rated M for language, smut, and Lady Stoneheart/Hound level violence. This one will get rough and bloody at times





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes : Title credit and beta skills go to Devilsbastian.

 

 

[Cover art by Bubug](https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/9yh1ns07s2g1irxjsfxxx/TSitD.jpg?dl=0&new_user=1&oref=e&r=AAfBCZb2hR4UldLyihZWnYQ_pI_uD-QOMLq5ChouHziQPgHTml7QG0l00FC_8vTqitWlz5jiu3wLQz5Jo1vEWzzh02uC0fzY96Pf-bGm_tZav7ei3zFlDpFx-9tMm-caZb_7ASflEAAW0rrB5ReYPbuTsN9d2vWSn9OWdUu6AT3kcfbzJ_khfGIi6cqhCB0Gznc&sm=1)

 

Forever. Infinity. Those are the words of men. Words they use to tell themselves that time is measured even when it is immeasurable; that space can be limited when it is limitless. Their words are meant to speak of places they cannot imagine. They believe that which lies outside their realm of understanding can be explained with a word or two. They are vain and arrogant creatures. Their minds are small and need the words to keep themselves separated. It’s either that . . . or go mad.

 

The Others know.

 

The Others watch.

 

As they have.

 

As they will.

 

They all gathered, joined, separated. Over and over. It was their song, their tide, their rhythm. The men and their women left their vessels and came where the Others played. Light and Darkness, the beloved twin sisters, clung to one another, and time no longer had meaning. Many of the men moved on. Some lingered. The women stayed more often than the men. They were the stronger, though men had kept them lodged beneath them. The women had sons, daughters, those that had grown inside them. They had a purpose men could never fathom. They had reason to love and hate. Reasons for revenge. When the great light came to claim them, they turned their back on it and listened to the Others.

 

The Lady Stark came to rest. She was no lady now. She was no longer a woman, for nothing has no sex. But when the Others whispered, “ _you are Stark no more_ ,” the being that once was Catelyn opened her eyes. Though there should not have been a voice, a tongue, or mouth to form the words, the Others heard her.

 

“No!” she shouted.   

 

Light and Darkness stretched. Yawning, they smiled at the Others. _It’s been so long since we’ve danced._

Vengeance was the first to hear her, for it had always been there. Truth and Justice followed close behind, sniffing at the air that wasn’t air. Memories they smelled. Pain and outrage and coldness. A son dead. A daughter lost. A husband murdered. More children stolen.

 

Vengeance howled with unbridled glee. _This one! This one!_ _I claim this one! She is mine!_

 

Sorrow and Jealousy bowed. Joy and Happiness fled. Fury cackled and Love cried. The being that was once a Stark thrashed within their circle. Vengeance loomed above her. _Can you swim?_ Its smile was ghoulish, the nightmare of all young children’s dreams. There were no lips but rows of teeth, needle sharp, the gums blue and purple. The eyes were black orbs shining bright. _Swim if you can, my Lady. Swim and I will wed you. You and I, we will slay them all._

“Yes,” the being replied, though what bargain had been struck, she did not know. All that could be seen was the face of a man, lines of life at the corner of his eyes and gray in his beard. All that could be felt was a boy in her arms, trembling and weeping for his dead father, while a crown fell from his hand into the snow. All that could be heard was the song of a girl, the sweetest melody, like a bird of spring.

 

Then time was ripping her to pieces. If she still had lungs to breathe with, they would have had all the air sucked from them. The River of Life flowed around her, churning and trying to drown her. She could see _all_. Every moment that had been her vessel’s life as well as all the moments of the vessels in her life. Those that were and those that could have been. Those that did not happen and those that were still to come.  The babe that never was grew into a girl with Tully looks and freckles on her cheeks. Her husband changed, aged before her, and asked for a kiss on his deathbed. A son never woke from his broken body’s slumber and was buried. A wolf lived. A wolf died. There was no younger brother to wed. It was the elder that had her and no daughters were ever born to her. The King left Winterfell, angry at the choices made and without a Hand to serve him. Her husband became the Hand but took the black. The youngest babe never saw his tenth year and at the same time lived to be an old man of eighty name days. A red haired daughter held an infant with gray eyes. The walls of Winterfell burned and the name Stark was driven from the land. A dark haired girl, determination in her stance, became a proud and dutiful leader. The same girl fell in a well before her fifth name day and left the world too soon.

 

Generations before her and all those after. Each future and past called her name, trying to stop her progress and lock their fate around her. Voices moaned all around her. They begged her to listen. Hands touched her everywhere and pulled her down, down, down. The moment she thought her mind had been lost, the awful din dissipated, the hands released their hold, and she could sense a single presence.

 

“Stay,” Ned said gently, stepping from the shadows. Ice was bound to his back and a cloak of silver wolf’s fur hung from his shoulders. His face was the most beautiful thing Catelyn had ever seen, cherished and precious to her.  The godswood sprang up around him. “Stay. This is ours. Forever, if you wish it. Say you’ll stay and it will be.”

 

Catelyn sobbed, falling to her knees. “Where is Robb?” she asked.

 

“I’m here, mother,” her eldest son answered. “I can be here too. Stay.”  There was sunlight within his red hair. There were no wounds; his tunic was clean and tight across his chest.

 

“And Sansa? Rickon?” Catelyn wept, still broken by the sight of her husband. “Where are the rest of the children?”

 

Ned gave her a look full of caring and sadness. “They are not here. Not yet. They will be soon. It will be but a day here and you will see them again. It’s scarcely been a few hours since I left and here you are. But you may watch them if you choose.”

 

 

“Watch them die you mean! Watch them suffer and perish as I watched Robb!”  

_Swim._

“Stay,” Robb beseeched her once more. “It did not hurt all that much. You know this, mother. Sansa, Arya, they will come. Bran and Rickon as well. We will all be together again.”

 

“At what price?” Catelyn yelled. “I will not watch my family cut down one by one. I will not stand aside and let our enemies live for what they did to you.”

 

_Swim!_

Eddard Stark reached for her with one gloved hand. “Cat . . . please.”

 

“No,” she wailed, shaking her head. “Forgive me, Ned.”

 

The soft leaves beneath Catelyn’s feet wriggled and became a sucking mud. It was Ned’s turn to weep as he watched his wife kick with all her might and struggle to free herself from the muck that had become memories and dreams of life once again. Catelyn fought. She swam up and away from the River of Life while Vengeance purred her name. When she found her way through, Vengeance kissed her deeply and delved into her chest with a hand cold as all the winters. Catelyn Stark watched her own heart beat inside the cupped hands of Vengeance.

 

And then it stopped.

 

The Red Priest, with fire in his veins and sparks at his fingertips, gave her vessel the charge it needed to come back. The face was that of Catelyn but the soul was no longer hers. There was no flesh and blood heart left within her. Vengeance had claimed his bride.

 

Stoneheart they called her. Lady Stoneheart. She was the kiss that brought anguish. She was the embrace that heralded death. The Red Priest kept her close. For all her power she could not stray far from the chain he kept around her neck at all times. The Lady could see as far as an eagle and hear the hooves of a deer hundreds of leagues away, but she could not touch it. She could hear her daughter crying and the boy that had once been a ward weeping along side her. A man took from her daughter and the Lady vowed to empty his belly onto the forest floor. Her sons separated. One went towards the snow, the other, deep into the forests.

 

 _Sansa. Bran. Rickon._  Vengeance hummed the names like a lullaby.

 

 _“Arya?”_ she asked and Vengeance grinned. The Lady saw. There was no need to worry. That one was safe. The sword at her side was sharp, the girl’s inner self reflecting the steel in her hand. And the man with her – the Lady could see straight into him – he was her protector. It was his way. Defend. Remain loyal. Kill. The Hound had his mission and it pleased the Lady.  It was for his own gain but that did not change the fact that Arya was safe. The Hound was rough, but Arya learned from him. He was teacher, guide, and friend, though neither one of them spoke of the roles. They were nearest to the Lady and she could watch over them while the other children remained lost but seen.

 

For Arya, all was well. The Lady sighed in peace when she looked at the girl and her strange companion. She flushed rabbits from the bushes to sustain them and blessed the water around them to be pure.  At night, she stood guard and kept the terrors that lurked there away. All was well.

 

Until, one day, it was not.

 

Arya’s protector lay defeated at the base of a steep hill. The Lady smelled death from atop her bluff, seeing all from a distance. It was not her place to interfere. Men must call for the Lady or she must choose them. There was no time to offer the Hound a choice. She watched the battle between man and woman unfold. She witnessed his fall and the woman’s shock. The woman wanted Arya but Arya would not be found. If the Lady had the ability to weep she would have. Vengeance roared, shrieked and spat black ooze upon the earth where it hissed and sizzled, scorching the grass.  Her sorrow and fury were shared between the two of them. What she felt, Vengeance experienced a hundred times over.

 

_We wanted that one! That one had strength, wrath, hate! That one, covered in blood! Thatonethatonethatone!_

The Lady turned with lightening speed, knocking Vengeance to the ground with no more than a palm pressed to its form.  She stamped one boot down onto its face, pinning the spirit. _“I know it! I am sorry, my Lord. Stop this. We will find another.”_ The Lady mourned their loss but it was Vengeance that could voice it.

 

The Lady turned to leave, releasing Vengeance, who gnashed its teeth at her and whimpered in the dust. Two paces and something caught her skirts. The Lady tugged at what had caught her but she did not move. The sad faces of Truth and Justice looked up at her. They were small and childlike, with wide eyes and rosy cheeks, though they were both older than Vengeance and twice as vicious.

 

 _“That one,”_ Truth begged, holding tight to the Lady’s dress.

 

 _“Please, mother, that one,”_ Justice added, pulling at the tattered ribbon around the Lady’s waist.

_“He is broken. Can you not smell it? His vessel is dying,”_ the Lady replied. _“Let go!”_

 

Then Truth put a hand into her pocket while Vengeance screamed, _“Don’t let-“_

 

But it was too late. Honor’s shadow fell over them all. His wings unfolded and fluttered as he drew a sword of light and raised it to the heavens. Vengeance cowered behind the Lady while Justice kissed Truth on the crown of her head.

 

I should have known, the Lady thought. _I should have seen this. She is never without her lover. I should have known she would bring him here. No matter how long the wait. The two of them will always seek each other._  

 

 _“THAT ONE STAYS,”_ Honor said in a voice that would broach no argument. He pointed his sword down to the valley where the Hound coughed and bled alone. _“SANDOR CLEGANE DOES NOT DIE THIS DAY. YOU WILL SEE THIS THROUGH.”_

 

 _“My Lord, he is done,”_ Vengeance said from behind the Lady.

 

 _“I DO NOT SPEAK TO YOU, COWARD,”_ Honor bellowed, his voice as thunderous as a stampede of wild horses. _“STAY SILENT OR TASTE MY BLADE. I SPEAK ONLY TO THE LADY.”_

The Lady looked back to the Hound. There was bone visible and she could feel the fever rising from him. Flies, large as copper coins, suckled at the wound near his neck and crows circled in the air above him, cawing for their supper. _“You are certain?”_ she asked Honor.

 

_“YOU WILL SEE THIS THROUGH. THE OTHERS ARE NOT FINISHED WITH HIM.”_

_“It will be done,”_ the Lady swore, bowing her head slightly to the golden giant that was Honor. Truth laughed and twirled around the Lady until Honor stepped back into her pocket.

 

 

The Lady sent a breeze to cool the Hound’s fevered brow. She gave him strength to lift the water skin to his lips and the urge to sleep to conserve what little energy remained within his vessel. At night, the Lady searched the brush and found a family of deer. Their hearts stopped as one and they fell where they stood. Blood flowed from their mouths and nostrils and soon the wolves came prowling. They did not smell the rotting man over the scent of fresh meat.

 

Another day and night passed like the first. The Lady did not tell her band of brothers. The Hound was hers, not theirs, Vengeance reminded her. So they all waited, the Lady, Vengeance, Truth and Justice. On the third day a wagon, some miles away came closer. They were trying to cross the river though and would likely never make it far enough downstream to discover the Hound.

 

 _“Preisssssst,”_ Vengeance hissed.

 

 _“A Septon,”_ the Lady corrected, noting the bronze star on a cord of leather around the man’s neck.

 

_“He took a vow. He will not pass by. He must help. He is bound by Faith.”_

 

The Lady nodded, sent a boulder tumbling on top of a dam, and flooded the wagon’s path. The party led by the Septon had no choice but to continue South in search of shallow waters. When they found the Hound, the Septon hung his head and called for a shovel. The Lady bent low, invisible when she chose to be, and breathed into the Hound’s mouth. The Hound woke, only for a moment, choking on the air she had given him. The Septon jumped back in alarm, then laughed and held a hand to his heart.

 

“Emma! Bring water!” the Septon shouted, clapping his hands together and rubbing them vigorously. “We’ve work to do. Greenesworth! Barnes! Help me load ‘im in the wagon. The Gods have sent us another.”

 

The Lady felt what should have been a smile spread across her face. The steed that had been the Hound’s was hiding from the wagon. _“Come,”_ the Lady said to the horse, taking the riens in her hands. No beast could resist her call. Her task was done for the time being. When the Hound was healed, the Lady would come back for him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_. . .Well, put a funnel down his gullet! I’ll not have ‘im thrashing when we set it!_

 

 

***

 

_Cut it! It won’t make any difference, it’s falling apart. The steel? Throw it in with the others . . ._

***

 

_. . . fever’s back. Where’s Emma? EMMA! The damned fever’s back! Bring more tea._

***

_He’s a tough bastard, that’s for certain . . ._

 

***

_. . .don’t know how he’s made it this long. Think it’s time to stop the dreamwine? See if he wakes on his own? It’d be a mercy to let him pass in his sleep. He’s still burning._

***

_Sing ‘im a tune Emma, that’s a girl. Such a pretty voice. Give ‘im something sweet to come back to. . ._

***

_. . . Gods above, give ‘im strength. You led me to one more for the flock, so let me have him!_

***

_Aye, the fever’s gone. No more wine. Let him wake. . ._

***

It was a strong voice, full of precision and sure of itself in a way that reminded Sandor of himself, dragging Ser Loras and the other milk-white Knights, with their limp wrists gripping swords and axes, out into the battle that nearly took King’s Landing. The words didn’t make much sense, swathed in darkness and the taste of unnaturally saccharine wine, but the tone was right. There were few men in Sandor’s life he could silently admit he half-respected; King Robert had his time of glory, and Tywin, cunt that he was, still knew what needed done, and _that_ attitude Sandor could acknowledge with a cool grunt of approval. Lord Stark had honor but had been a fool to think it would gain him anything in the end.

 

The voice sounded like the three of those men, ready to lead and face their duty. And yet, there was a softness sliding over the words that Sandor had only heard from Robert when he was in his cups, or addressing the Lord Stark, and Sandor had _never_ heard such an undercurrent of kindness pass from the lips of Tywin Lannister. Out of the three choices, the voice mimicked the qualities of Eddard Stark best.

 

Sometimes, Sandor thought he might have heard a feminine voice singing. _The Father keeps his children close, the Warrior does protect them._ If he went back far enough, Sandor could feel a warm blanket wrapped around him and a gentle brush of lips on the top of his head. _The Maiden kisses each in turn, but it’s the Mother who loves them._ If he went forward through memories -the emotionally deadening years constructed from a boy’s resentment and a man’s blinding hatred- the voice reminded him of birdsong and harp strings touched by delicate fingers, of polished brass bells and shimmering laughter around a mouthful of lemon cake, too bright to be enjoyed by the likes of him. A soul as black as his didn’t deserve the unspoken benediction promised in _that_ voice. But the quiet woman’s song calmed him and carried him to slumber nonetheless, where he dreamt of wintry blue eyes and rich, copper-colored hair.

 

********************************************************************

 

The first indication that circumstances had changed was the sound of children laughing. The sound didn’t belong in Sandor’s cache of memories. It wasn’t the cruel, shocked sounds from his youth nor was it the short, nervous giggles he’d grown used to in his adulthood. It wasn’t even the mocking laughter of the stable boys and squires uttered behind his back before they learned it was in the their best interest to hold their tongues when near him. No, this was a chaotic harmony of joyful squeals and happy exclamations that Sandor thought, perhaps, he could recall Tommen and Myrcella engaging in from time to time when they had been much smaller.

 

Sandor tried to open his eyes, heavy with sleep and itching at the corners. They were crusted over and he had to rub at them with the heel of his hands. He had spent two days, clenching his jaw in pain, thirsty and shaking with both fear and fever, before finally succumbing to what he assumed was his death. Now, his senses didn’t pick up on anything to indicate he’d fallen into one of the Seven Hells he was sure he was destined to serve in the afterlife. The ground beneath him didn’t feel like stony, uneven earth anymore, having been replaced by what felt suspiciously like a straw pallet. He was still positioned upright, as he had been the last time he could remember being conscious, but, -Sandor wriggled slightly, wincing at the claws of pain that raked down one of his legs-  there had been sacks of grain stuffed behind him. The smell at his backside was dry and yeasty, like the storage house of oats and hay for the horses of King’s Landing, and there was the scratch of burlap against the nape of his neck.

Finally able to pry his eyes open, Sandor drew in a sharp breath as scorching sunlight pierced his vision. His mouth was so parched it had become sticky with a thick film of mucous and there was an absolutely foul taste at the back of his throat. It tasted like Stranger had shit in his mouth. Twice! _How long have I been asleep?_ Sandor could only think, not speak; his throat was clogged with the rotten flavor of disuse. Blinking, he tried to shield his eyes as they adjusted to the light of the room and all the while the children sang and laughed somewhere unseen.

 

The room came into focus, then blurred and did its dance once more before settling on becoming a clear image. Sandor found himself in a room with four walls, two windows with leather flaps at the top meant to keep them sealed off in the night, a single door and a roof; a small hut really and Sandor found the space surprisingly welcoming. It seemed a simple, humble room and clean as well, with fresh rushes on the floor and a clay vase of wildflowers on the table. Someone had tried to make the room _cheerful_. Sandor snorted at the pink and purple blossoms until he remembered the tiny, star shaped buds the little bird used to collect in the godswood. Then he frowned, grimacing at the unwanted memory. No matter how hard he tried -not that he’d given it _too_ much effort- he had been unable to remove Sansa Stark from his mind.

 

Besides the flowers, the room was nearly identical to his chamber in King’s Landing with a table and chair, a bulky chest obvious _not_ built by a craftsman, a few candles and a single, wrought iron brazier tucked far in a corner. Some might think the furnishings sparse but Sandor felt at ease; he wasn’t a man for coveting much outside the category of necessity. The only difference was this room was built of wood and not gray slabs of rock as his room at the Red Keep was. That, and the cot placed under one of the windows, was the only thing odd or slightly unfamiliar.

 

The chair in the room had been placed by his bed and Sandor spied a wooden cup and pitcher set on it. He nearly fell out of bed as he lunged for the cup in his desperate haste, his speed impressive for having been near blind moments before. Half the liquid made it to his cracked lips, the other spilt across his chest and down his chin as his hands trembled trying to keep a firm hold on his prize. It was only water, and stale from sitting out, but no wine had ever done a better job at quenching his thirst. Sandor gulped the tepid water as if the Mother had offered her pale teat to him, filled the cup once it had been drained and drank again, coughing on the last sip before trying to catch his breath.

 

Slightly refreshed, Sandor suddenly remembered his training and whipped his head around the room, trying to learn how and why he came to rest in such a snug, secure cabin.  Startled by what felt like a blow to the crook of his neck, he cried out, lifting a hand and finding a moistened pad of wool held securely against his skin by a rough length of linen. Sandor followed the bandage’s path down and around his chest with his fingers. _The biting, fucker!_  He probably should have listened to Arya, and sealed the wound with fire, but it had been too soon after the Battle of the Blackwater and the ghosts he thought long buried were still calling his name. The image of her holding out a glowing orange branch near his face made Sandor want to vomit and he took another swallow of water to calm his stomach. Absently running a hand over his belly, he realized he had no clothing on, at least not from the waist up. A quick glance under the furs revealed his nakedness from the waist down. Taking inventory, Sandor noted a huge bandage wrapped around his right thigh and wooden boards strapped around it; he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. There were bruises covering most of his torso and arms. Sandor ran a hand through his hair, grunting as his fingers passed over a large lump on the side of his head. _Big bitch and her rock!_ Growing frustrated at his broken state, he shoved a hand back under the furs and gave his cock a swift tug, hissing at the bit of pleasure it brought. The contrast between that brief moment of satisfaction and the varying degrees of ache and agony spread throughout his body made him twitch within his hand. _Well, one bloody thing still works!  A lot of good it would do him though, crippled and maimed in a sick bed._

 

Sandor huffed and drew his hand out from under the furs, pouring a third cup of water. His hands felt twice as large as they ought to, stiff in the way that told a man winter was here to stay. Someone had stitched his palms back together, and while there was swelling present in his fingers, they didn’t shake any longer. The children’s laughter was fading, and Sandor could hear the sounds of labor; the solid knock of hammers and the lazy hum of saws. Men and women’s voices alike were carried in by a slight breeze through the window. Sandor sat up as straight as he was able, craning his neck to try and see outside, when the door to the cabin opened.

 

A woman stalled in the doorway. She was petite, short by anyone’s standards, and wide in the hips with breasts that begged a man to bury his face between them; they didn’t whisper to go on and take a peek, rather, they screamed at a man to try not to gawk. Her honey colored hair was messily stacked and pinned to the top of her head and a lock of it fell freely over her brow, sticking to one of her flushed cheeks. “Oh!” she said breathlessly. “You’re awake!” There was a tray in her hands that she quickly dropped to the table as she rushed to his side, wiping her hands on her apron and then laying a palm on his unmarred cheek.

 

“Get off!” Sandor shouted, smacking her hand away from him, both angered and appalled by the strange woman’s lack of boundaries. “Who the fuck are you?”

 

The woman took a step away, clearly taken aback by his reaction. “I-you,” she stammered. “I was only checking for fever Ser-“

 

“Do I look like a bloody Knight?”

 

“You had armor and a sword when we found you,” she replied nervously.

 

“That means fuck all,” Sandor growled. Then her statement struck him. “Who’s ‘we’?”

 

“S-septon Ray and the Brothers and Sisters. All of us. We took you in, Ser,” the woman squeaked.

 

“Call me that again, I’ll take your tongue,” Sandor threatened, feeling more confused by the minute. He knew his threat was an idle one –beyond backhanding Arya, he hadn’t hit a woman in many years- but _she_ didn’t know it and that was the important part. Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes. _Fuck it._ He hadn’t meant to make her cry. “Bring your Septon,” he tried, keeping the harshness from his voice while still maintaining a tone of authority, “I’m tired of your stuttering.”

 

The woman nodded, turning and leaving the hut at a brisk pace, leaving the door hanging wide open; eager, it seemed, to pass him off to another, which was all the better in Sandor’s mind. If she brought the leader, he’d sort out what was going on faster than if he had to deal with a skittish, codling woman. _She did have nice teats though_. . . Perhaps he had been too hasty in sending her off. It would have been nice to watch them bounce for a minute longer while she fretted in front of him.

 

A glint of light from across the room caught Sandor’s eye. On the tray the woman had brought was a bowl with steam rising from it, a cloth or two and a pitcher with what Sandor assumed was more water inside. The russet jug was sweating on the outside and Sandor swallowed unconsciously. No, he shouldn’t have chased the woman off so quickly. Now he was stuck longing for the taste of chilled water, or –Sandor sniffed at the air, noting the sour, crisp scent and his mouth watered- cider! A fat bead of condensation rolled down the swell in the pitcher, like a drop of sweat over a woman’s breast and Sandor nearly went hard watching it. Gods, it had been far too long since he’d had proper nourishment of any kind, flesh or food!

 

Water began to collect and pool around the base of the pitcher as the sweat would in the dip of a woman’s back, right above her arse from behind. “Fuck,” Sandor muttered, stretching his arms to bring his mind back to the pain and away from the damned pitcher that had become annoyingly erotic. He stared pointedly at the window and tried to count the different individual voices still filtering through the open window.  Somewhere between number eighteen and nineteen, Sandor heard the crunch of boots near the doorway.

 

“Ah, there he is!” a man said, stepping fully into the room and clapping his hands together loudly. “Back with us then, eh?” The man was a few fingers shorter than Sandor but looked to have a few years on him. Lines were fully developed and entrenched on the man’s face while Sandor’s had only begun to suggest where they would be when he was older. Where Sandor had a line or two of gray in his beard, this man’s dark hair was already salted thoroughly. The man wore plain clothing, though there was no mistaking the star shaped medallion on a loop of leather around the man’s neck. He wasn’t robed, and he didn’t walk as if he had a stick up his arse, but the man was a Septon, that was certain. The man had a smile –an _honest_ smile- on his face.

 

Sandor gave a cautious tilt of his head back in answer. “Seems like it,” he said with a shrug.

 

The man stepped closer, offering his hand. “I’m Ray, the others around here will call me Septon but it isn’t necessary for any of ‘em to do so.” Sandor knew he should have taken the man’s forearm but he’d never been quick to trust anyone. Instead, he ignored the man’s polite gesture until the Septon grew uncomfortable and dropped his arm. “All right, fair enough. Not enough information yet, eh? Can I ask your name? Where you come from?”

 

Again, Sandor gave him silence. There was a bounty on him after all and perhaps this Septon wasn’t as genuine as he seemed. “How about you tell me who _you_ are, and where I am?” he said, trying to take back some semblance of control. 

 

“Ha! He wants to know who I am when I’ve just given ‘im my name?” The Septon seemed to think this enormously funny as he laughed and sat on the edge of the bed near Sandor’s feet. Sandor tried to move farther away, beginning to think the Septon was a bit soft in the head. The Septon, Ray, began to settle as he spoke. “Calm down before you land on your arse, I’ve no where else to sit and my fucking back hurts. I told you my name. I was a soldier once, now I’m not. I’ve gained a flock over the years and we’ve made a decent home for each other. We’re a bit south of the Salt Pans, across the river mind you. Farming, a bit of livestock, and the desire to do a little good in the world, nothing more. It’s that simple. Your turn.”

 

“Where’s my horse and-“ Sandor hesitated but his need to know won out, “-the girl? Small, brown hair, got a sword.” A flash of Arya stepping lightly through her stupid water dancing came to Sandor and he tried hard to stop the flood of worry growing in his gut. She’d taken his silver and denied him mercy, and yet, he was _still_ concerned for her safety, he thought angrily. He should have been furious with her but . . . he wasn’t. He hated her at times, for injecting feelings into him he’d never asked for, just as much as he did her prattling, ignorant, naive, pretty and _perfect_ sister. Each Stark sister brought out something different in Sandor that he wished would go away while, at the same time, he seemed to rush towards; leaving him torn between isolating habits learned over a lifetime and something uncomfortably foreign that he had no name for. Sometimes, he felt warmth for the littlest wolf pup and _heat_ for the elder, and each emotional climate was as troublesome as the other.

 

The Septon’s face fell as his smile was replaced with a puzzled frown. “No horse,” he answered. “No girl. Just you, a sword and signs of a struggle. There was a girl?” The Septon looked as worried as Sandor felt.

 

“If she didn’t show herself when you arrived, she’s long gone,” Sandor explained, betrayal once again making his chest ache in an odd way.  “Thought maybe she might have stayed, or come back.”

 

“Should I send a group back out? Try to find her?”

 

“I’m telling you, if she wanted to be found out she would have let you. If you didn’t see her that’s because she’s miles away by now” Sandor repeated. “She’s smart but small yet. She needs someone to look after her but she’s too stubborn to admit it most of the time. Shame about the horse.” Sandor felt much more grief over learning Stranger was gone than he would ever show. Arya was plucky, resourceful and she just might stand a chance on her own. Stranger was probably hitched to some lowborn peasant’s plow, living a trouble-free life filled with work and apples. The thought was slightly comforting and Sandor wondered if the imaginary farmer could fathom the amount of gold the skilled warhorse was worth.

 

“Well, you’ve sacred Emma off for the time being,” the Septon said, trying to change the subject as he rose and lifted the water pitcher from the chair, “I suppose you’ll want to do your own washing anyway now that you’re awake.” The Septon swapped out the water pitcher for the tray Emma brought earlier and left it on the chair.

 

It seemed the conversation was going to continue with or without Sandor’s input but his mouth opened regardless. “Emma? The short one with . . .” Sandor trailed off, tracing the curves of a woman in the air with one finger.

 

Ray threw back his head with laughter. “Aye, that’s our Emma. You ought to treat a woman who’s seen your cock more kindly. Might be she’ll take her revenge by telling everyone there’s nothing but a little worm down there,” the Septon’s smile was back as he spoke and lifted his smallest finger at Sandor, which he wiggled.

 

“You let her wash me?!” Sandor asked incredulously, feeling his face grow hot. He’d shoved enough women down on their knees in his time but having one bathe him, especially without payment, seemed intimate in a way that was disturbing.

 

“What? You rather I had done it?” The Septon made a face while taking the empty cup Sandor had been toying with and filling it with cider before passing it back.  “No, thank you. It’s only the two of us that’s got any experience healing. I’ve stitched up enough men on the battlefields and her mother was a healer so she learned over the years. She was only doing a task. You were a sight fit for the midden heap when we found you. Stank to all the heavens! Be glad someone washed you and be glad for Emma’s strong stomach.”

 

Sandor drank his cup of pulpy cider instead of commenting. It was probably best someone had taken on the task of cleaning him, but it was still a disconcerting thought. The Septon drank straight from the cider jug and then gestured towards Sandor’s cup, which he held out to be refilled. There was an almost aggressive kindness about the man that Sandor found intriguing.

 

There was a clatter from outside before a young man rushed into the room, all arms and scrawny legs, wearing breeches that came almost to the tops of his boots. The boy was pale, but his hair was brown as earth after a rainstorm. There was yet another tray in boy’s unusually large hands.

 

“Brax! Good lad!” the Septon greeted the boy. “Look at ‘im,” the Septon continued, pointing at Sandor, “up and talking like he didn’t knock on the Stranger’s door all week.” The boy blushed fiercely, made all the more apparent by his fish-belly skin. “Brax here helped Emma and I. Went for this or that. What have you got now?”

 

“Just milk and bread,” the lad answered, making several awkward attempts to place the tray in Sandor’s lap, before Sandor gave the boy a low growl and grabbed it himself. “Oh! And Emma sent this,” the boy added, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a tied bundle that contained a ball of soft cheese.

 

“Sorry, there’s not much but that till dusk,” the Septon apologized. “There’s chicken for supper tonight but it’s only just gone on the fire. Going to be a few hours until it’s ready, but we’ll bring you a plate later on.”

 

Sandor grunted, his mouth full of hearty bread. The milk was grassy tasting with the cream still on the top. It wasn’t something he normally would crave, but he’d been so long without food or drink that Sandor had to stop himself from groaning with pleasure as he bit into the cheese like a ripe piece of fruit.

 

“Bet that’s a fair shade better than dreamwine and Dead Man’s Slumber,” the Septon remarked. “We couldn’t get much else besides some water and thinned honey down your throat. You’ve gotten skinner since we found you. It’s good you woke before you starved!”

 

Well, that explained the horrible taste in his mouth when he woke, Sandor thought. They’d been sustaining him on fucking mushrooms and wine! The Septon was right about the weight, Sandor observed, looking at the knobs of bones in his wrists he’d never been able to see before. He shoveled more bread into his mouth while the Septon excused Brax, who scuttled from the room with all the grace of constipated dragon. Then there was silence. A _long_ silence. The Septon waited. Sandor looked out the window and ate.

 

“Listen to me,” the Septon finally said with a sigh, breaking the quiet that had gone on for nearly a quarter of an hour. “We don’t give a shit who you were yesterday. We care for who you are today and we pray for who you’ll be tomorrow. Every one of us is the same here. You’re an equal, just like everyone else. Today counts, yesterday is gone, tomorrow is yet to come. Stay here, rest up. When you’re on your feet again you can stay or go. There’s always a choice, understand?”

 

Sandor paused to chew slowly and then swallow his mouthful of food. “Clegane,” he stated, looking at the tray in his lap. “My name is Sandor Clegane.”

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

The first few weeks under the Septon’s and Emma’s care were a thunderous storm of frustration and embarrassment. Never before had Sandor been so physically blunted and weakened.  There was no escape from the Septon’s small talk and no way to relieve the restless agitation that stillness placed inside him. Sandor itched from the inside out. It was like the thrum of bees within a hive or the crazed cacophony of a thousand different creatures at dusk. The internal noise had always been there, up and pacing madly while ranting, or rocking, disturbed and purposeless in a corner of his mind, but in the past, movement and wine had muted its volume.  With his sword and sour red gone, the prickling sensations of _feelings_ were as loud and unruly as the mob had been during the Bread Riots.

 

It made everything around Sandor seem all the more enraging. The sheets were too scratchy, the food too bland, the light from the window too harsh, Emma’s voice too shrill. Several times, the makeshift healer had to swipe at her eyes with the corner of her apron when dealing with his temperament, though, after a time, she learned it was his way with everyone. She wasn’t being singled out. His barbs and curses were neither personal nor personable.

 

The moment his leg was free from its wooden prison, Sandor was up, naked and without a care in the world as to who could see what. Pain lanced through his leg, making him hiss, but he stumbled and grabbed for the back of his chair, refusing the Septon’s offered arm. Clothes, newly made, hung over the back of the chair, while his boots had been repaired, oiled and placed on the seat. Sandor pushed the boots aside, letting them fall to the floor, as he landed heavily in the chair and Emma stared up at the ceiling.

 

“Seen it before, woman, stop acting like a bloody maiden,” Sandor grumbled, wincing as he clumsily shuffled into his breeches. Emma’s laugh was a soft huff through her nose, close to one of Sandor’s own scoffing snorts, but she kept her gaze upwards until she heard him fumble with his boots.

 

Dressed and somewhat put together, Sandor limped his way to the door and took his first steps outside in over a fortnight. It was late in the afternoon; most everyone was at work or play and there was no one but the Septon and Emma to witness his first attempt at truly walking.

 

The limp was atrocious in Sandor’s mind and the muscles of his thigh cramped immediately, but Sandor ground his teeth, set his jaw and kept moving. It was going to hurt for a long time, Sandor knew this, and there was no way he was going to let the knowledge stop him from exploring his new environment. The Septon kept close by as Emma watched from the hut’s doorframe.

 

Dirt stirred beneath his feet, as Sandor shuffled a few yards and stopped to rest. Another short collection of steps was taken, while the Septon pointed to various small cabins and the surrounding slopes of lush, grassy hills. There was nothing but meadows, sheep, goats, poultry and people dotting the landscape. No castles or Keeps, stone walls or banners. There were woods father off, full of bird’s chirping and the faint sound of moving water, though Sandor couldn’t see its source. Patches of grass had been worn down into winding paths that connected each cabin to another. The air was cool, but the sun’s rays were hot enough to bring on a sweat as Sandor continued to work his way in a circle around the hut he’d been lodging inside. There was an odd sense of calm about the place and though Sandor’s body was sore and tingling, his mind was blessedly quiet.

 

Sandor’s leg ached so badly the week after his splint was removed, that he was close to tears by the end of each day.  He swallowed them down of course, but at night he was up for many long hours trying to breathe trough the burning spasms that made his flesh jerk and tremble from knee to lower back. Tenderness during the day became a throbbing agony at night that cost him any chance at a decent night’s rest. He suffered in practiced silence for days before the Septon finally dragged the cause of Sandor’s tired, haggard look out of him. After that, at the time Sandor usually retired for the evening, the Septon brought small pouches stuffed with grain that had been laid next to the fires to warm, into Sandor’s hut and all but forced him to sit with them lying across his mending thigh.

 

In the early mornings, the Septon brought Emma by, before Sandor was fully awake and moving. There had been several booming arguments, the Septon’s kind demeanor leaving for the first time and it was explained to Sandor he _would_ do as he was told. Sandor never fully understood why he didn’t belt the older man across the face, shove Emma out of the way and leave them all. Instead, he glared daggers at both the Septon and Emma before slamming himself down onto his bed. Emma knelt on the floor in front of him and pressed her knuckles into Sandor’s tight muscles, while he tried to think of anything besides the fact that she was inches away from his cock. Neither he nor Emma could make eye contact with the each other after, but the massages and warmed pouches continued until they were no longer needed.

 

 

************************************************************************

 

 

After he’d gained his footing enough to walk short distances, Sandor helped with simple tasks; peeling potatoes, scrubbing the dirt off of vegetables and plucking chickens or ducks, while sitting on a low stool under one of the canopies set aside for food preparation. The women clucked and fussed, paying him no mind. It was another blow to his soldier’s ego but it was better than lying abed all day.

 

Once, a large stewpot started to boil over and a babe, not quite a year old, had been thrust into his arms by one of the womenfolk as she ran to remove the pot from the fire. It was awful. Sandor gingerly held the baby boy on his lap around the middle. For a full minute they stared at one another. He squeezed the boy’s stomach experimentally, in as gentle a manner as he could manage. The babe gurgled and clapped and then pissed on his leg. Sandor was eager to hand the boy babe to its mother and groaned audibly every time another child was shoved into his arms by a frazzled looking mother, though it never stopped them from taking advantage of the fact that he couldn’t move fast enough to evade them.

 

Tristen, Stephan, and Annabelle. Those were the babes of the community. It couldn’t be helped but to memorize their names after the several dozen times Sandor was forced to hold them. The other children were old enough to sit or play on their own. Tristen squirmed like a wild piglet, Stephan always smelled of piss and tiny Annabelle looked at Sandor with her pale blue eyes in a way that made his heart thud painfully within his chest. One day, she poked herself in the eye, causing her to cry out in confused distress. Not sure what to do, Sandor hefted the girl up onto his chest and patted her back as he’d seen her mother do. Annabelle’s mother came upon them and, instead of taking the girl back, found something else to keep her hands conveniently busy for a few more minutes. Annabelle fell asleep in Sandor’s arms, snoring lightly. Children weren’t so _very_ terrible, he concluded.

 

 

*******************************************************************

 

 

Sandor was beginning to suspect, that for all of the Septon’s sincerity, the man was also full of horse shit. Clever in a way all seasoned soldier’s were; never giving up all their secrets, while simultaneously trying to push through their opponent’s barriers without their knowledge until it was too late and there was a sword in their gut. Except the Septon didn’t fight with steel, and there was no grievous injury to Sandor’s flesh, yet, after each conversation he had with the man, Sandor felt as if he had been split wide open and scrubbed raw somewhere inside him. Sometimes his head hurt after, and other times the now familiar, lonely, horrible ache in his chest would linger for hours.

 

The Septon knew damn well who Sandor bloody was from the start, quickly stating he was a younger brother as well, once Sandor had yielded and given his full name. The point of asking hadn’t been to identify Sandor; it had been a test of honesty and a way to gage Sandor’s willingness to trust. The trap should have been easy to spot but Sandor had, uncharacteristically, stumbled into it.  It was a thought that bothered him at night; a puzzle of his own being that he didn’t know the solution to. Why did he continue to let the Septon lead him like a bull with a ring through its nose, he asked himself, when moonlit shadows crept across the ceiling above him.

 

All the talk of Sandor moving on after his leg healed was a fiction each man maintained, sparing Sandor’s pride. They both knew Sandor was going no where, and the Septon wisely chose not to make any sort of fuss or fanfare over the decision.  The hut Sandor woke in became his own and the cot, used by the Septon when Sandor had been unconscious, was removed. The Septon told him they were in the process of building half a dozen new homes to accommodate growing families and to have extra quarters on hand for their ever expanding flock. Once those cabins were completed, they would begin working on their very own Sept for worship and meetings.

 

“Tomorrow, might be, I’ll go,” Sandor said each evening.

 

“The Gods be with you then, we won’t forget you,” the Septon always replied. It might have sounded like a challenge from any other man but from the Septon’s lips it was nothing more than truth. Solid, unbreakable truth. 

 

When morning came, and the cock’s crowing announced a new day, Sandor stayed.

 

 

 

************************************************************************

 

 

There were close to forty in the small community Sandor had become a part of.  Most of them ignored him and that was as it should be, he told himself. He had grown up alone, thanks to Gregor, and was so used to the arrangement by now he wasn’t entirely sure if he’d ever disliked it. Solitude seemed a natural thing, like breathing, or fucking or dying.

 

The Septon was the given exception. Each day he sought out Sandor two or three times; simply checking up on him, sharing a new jest, or taking tally of the wood ready to be seasoned and stored. Some evenings the Septon lured Sandor out of the woods with a tankard of brown ale and a spit-roasted rabbit. Sitting by a low fire, they would drink and eventually Sandor would let some of the past be known. Not much, and not often, but the Septon beamed at every rare sentence Sandor gave up.  As the weeks flowed by, it became easier to talk for a minute, then two, then five and soon the ale wasn’t needed any longer to strike up a brief conversation between the two men.

 

None of the other men approached him unless it was to give a message from the Septon, or to ask for Sandor’s help with lifting. Sandor had grown stronger, put weight back on and in a matter of weeks could once again partake in more masculine tasks within the community. Chopping wood suited him. The swing of an axe could feel like the swing of a sword, if he timed it right, and a block of wood could be any number of faces Sandor wanted a chance at smashing in. And best of all, it could be done all by his lonesome, though every few days Brax would wave, walk over and ask if he could help. Sandor let the lad try for a time before taking the axe back, the silence telling Brax he’d had enough company for the day.  After a month, Brax moved on, interested in hunting, not wood, and a girl his own age, leaving Sandor in peace. It was what Sandor had wanted all along but the fact that he felt somehow saddened by losing the lad’s attention angered him.

 

Emma tried to speak with him. She would give him a shy smile and ask how his leg was if they happen to be beside one another in line for food. He gave her grunts and sighs most of the time, using their extreme difference in height to his advantage and peeking at her breasts that seemed to be crushed by her clothing. Once, their hands touched as they reached for the same heel of bread and he had backed off immediately, letting her have her choice, while her face flushed with a light pink blush.

 

There was also a wildling turned repentant, Vara, who had taken a particular interest in him. Long of limb and dark haired, her skin glowed with a warm olive tone. Her brown eyes sparkled mischievously whenever she walked past him and once she’d smacked his arse on her way to the wash tubs! Sandor understood well enough what she was after and had been tempted on more than one occasion to see if she liked her arse slapped in return, but the timing never seemed to work out right. And then there was Emma . . .

 

Emma’s looks were more appealing to Sandor’s taste in women, and she was closer in age to him then Vara, who barely looked at if she’d seen twenty name days. But Emma was quiet and timid. Sandor didn’t have the patience or knowledge to try and court her. All his life it had been whores and saucy kitchen wenches, up for a roll or two before moving onto the next man that caught their eye. There was no great love in his past; no woman wanted anything to do with his face or temper and he didn’t need them to in order to get under their skirts. He knew it was his strength and rumored girth they were after and it had never mattered to him. Curves and cunts might come in different flavors, shades and sizes but they were all the same in the end.

 

There was no clear signal from Emma that told Sandor he should proceed or that all she wanted was to scratch at an itch, as he did. Vara licked her spoon clean of gravy, seductively and with blatant suggestion, right in front of him. He loved neither woman; Sandor had no clue as to what that particular emotion felt like, unless it was similar to what he felt for Stranger or the suffocating, precarious _unbalance_ of indescribable yearnings that the little bird stirred within him. No, neither woman made such an impression on his heart, but that had nothing to do with his cock, that begged him to go on and bloody well _choose_ instead of continuing to waste his seed on the sheets of his bed. He probably could have fucked them both for a time, without either knowing about the other, but that seemed somehow wrong in a way that, again, frustrated him. Since when did he give two shits over the feelings of others or bedding more than one woman at a time?

 

 

*********************************************************************

 

 

At suppertime, some chose to take their meals to their quarters, while others ate outdoors. Sandor preferred to be outside whenever possible. Pelting rain or hail didn’t stop him from venturing out and hacking at trees most of the day. There was a shallow of water he had discovered on one of his walks within the woods, connected to a river and suitable for bathing. For Sandor, only sleep and dressing took place under a roof. It was during the final meal of the day that the Septon usually struck.

 

“Tell me how you came to be here,” the Septon asked one evening, taking Sandor’s used cup and dish from him and seating himself on a log opposite Sandor. 

 

 

Sandor eyed the man suspiciously, already sensing another seemingly innocent field of questioning that was sure to have some sort of emotional snare hidden within it. “I’ve told you twice now. You losing your wits old man? Can’t remember?”

 

“Not that story,” the Septon replied, the ever present half-smile on his face. “I know, I know. You would have slain all the knights in Westeros if only you’d had a good meal in your stomach.” Sandor glared at the Septon, not at all amused by the man’s teasing tone, though he remained silent, popping the last bite of his oatcake into his mouth. “I’m talking about _before_.”

 

“Before that I was trying to get myself some gold in exchange for the Stark girl. Before that it was King’s Landing and before that Casterly Rock. And before all that I was shitting in my swaddling clothes and suckling off a nursemaid’s sagging teat. Is that far back enough for you?” Sandor asked irritably.

 

The Septon’s admonishment was swift but gentle. “Don’t play at being dull Clegane, we both know you’ve got more brains inside that head of yours than you let on. I’m not talking about places and spaces in time and you know it. Can you answer the question or not?”

 

“You think it was one of your Gods?” Sandor said in a mocking tone. “There aren’t any Gods.”

 

“There’s something,” the Septon said carefully. “Gods or no, something sent me your way and brought you here.”

 

“Blood and steel and an empty belly brought me here.” Sandor gave the Septon a weary look. These talks seemed so _pointless_ at times. “And a flooded river sent you South. _That’s_ the reason I’m here. There’s no reason beyond that.”

 

“But there is, you just don’t see it yet” the Septon said, pressing the issue. Then he sighed and rubbed his fingers through his beard. “And neither do I, but it will come. Sooner or later the reason will out itself.”

 

The fire crackled, embers glowing bright orange while each man thought on what the other had said. All the talk of Gods and the day he had been found was working something loose in Sandor’s mind. Taking a great lungful of air, he reached for it and spoke. 

 

“I might have seen one of your Gods,” Sandor whispered, quiet as the crypts. The Septon raised an eyebrow, waiting on Sandor to continue. He did so haltingly, his voice taking on a deep rasp, remembering the face he had seen. “When I was lying there, sure I was dying. There was a shadow. You’d think the Stranger would look more a man but it was a woman, white as snow, with skin that peeled away in strips. There was blood, like she’d torn at her face with her own nails and her eyes looked as if they’d been dead a long time.” Sandor’s voice took on a grave tone. “I think I died. For a moment. Then she put her lips to mine. Next thing I know, I’m here.”

 

The Septon straightened and placed the empty dishes onto the ground. “I’ve heard men and woman close to death say they’ve seen faces. Things that aren’t there. I’ve never heard anyone speak of a being like that.”

 

“That’s who you’ve got to thank for me being here,” Sandor said coldly, standing and walking past the still seated Septon. There wasn’t a feeling of fear attached to the dead woman’s face, but it made Sandor’s skin crawl all the same to think about her. “You ask _her_ what the reasons are.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The shift was almost imperceptible. Sandor couldn’t say how, or why, or when exactly it occurred. Every morning he rose, splashed water across his face, dressed quickly and grabbed a fistful of the previous night’s bread and hard cheese from the first few women up and tending to the morning meal’s preparations. Stuffing his cold repast into his pockets, Sandor would set out for the woods before anyone had a chance to stop him. Routine, no matter how small or mundane, was a comfort.

 

He tried hard not to feel anything the first time Annabelle’s mother had double the portion he usually took, tied securely within a cloth, ready and waiting for him. He took it, irritated that someone had noticed his pattern. Someone had observed; tried to make things easier on him. Someone _cared_. The number of people Sandor could make the same statement about was growing at an alarming rate. He could almost count them off on an entire hand! A year or two ago and he wouldn’t have been able to name one and now there were _multiple_ , all of it starting with a quiet, “thank you,” from the lips of a little bird.

 

Annabelle’s mother playfully warned that her actions wouldn’t repeat themselves if he didn’t return her bit of cloth to her. The entire morning, Sandor contemplated burning it and watching her kindness go up in flames. He knew, before coming to this place, he would have done so without hesitation. Hells, he would have ignored her offering completely and told her to fuck off! But something was different now. It was as if there were a tunic over him, sewn and patched together. A piece of betrayal here, a snippet of rejection there, threads of anger and buttons the color of blood and wine. Over the years it had served him well, but now the garment was thinning, the threads loosening ever so slightly, nearly all the buttons missing. At the end of the day, Sandor gave the cloth back, folded and free from any crumbs, without a word.

 

 

***********************************************

 

 

There was an unusual humidity to the day as Sandor worked, alone, in a section of silver birches overrun by a briar patch of thorny and dying gooseberry bushes. Sandor had been thinning the area for the last seven days, felling most of the trees for future use as firewood.  He’d removed his vest early on in the morning and loosened the ties on his tunic, but still he sweated like he was back in King’s Landing, armored and roasting. A branch snapped, the sound coming from the ground, not from above and Sandor paused, mid-swing. There was silence and then another small crack from the forest behind him. It wasn’t the Septon. Though the man could move with stealth amongst the woods, his voice usually carried through the brush long before he could be seen. It wasn’t Brax either; the gangly youth’s footfall always announced his presence first.

 

This step was careful and light as a doe’s. It was definitely a person, not an animal. Anything larger than himself would have come barreling at him by now and anything smaller would never continue on with making its way closer with Sandor’s own scent and grunts of labor moving through the air. A cluster of bushes to Sandor’s right stirred and a feminine arm parted the way for its owner. Stepping out from her cover, Vara grinned at him. There was an empty bucket in one of her hands.

 

“You lost?” Sandor questioned, aiming his ax at her bucket.

 

Vara swung it nonchalantly at her side.  “Maybe I am, and maybe I’m not. They sent me for water.”

 

“River’s half a league back that way,” Sandor commented, sticking a thumb out and back over his shoulder.

 

“I know that,” Vara answered, rolling her eyes and setting the bucket on the ground. “I’m tired of fetching for everyone else. Aren’t you bored with chopping wood all day?”

 

Sandor’s ax came down on a stump with exaggerated force. This was going to go either one of two ways. Either the girl was going to have her back up against a tree in matter of minutes, or, she was going to tease him and flee.  Sandor wasn’t in the mood for the latter, but he had the distinct impression it was the former that was going to occur as Vara started to twist a lock of her dark hair around a finger, smiling at him once again. There was still a wildling prowling somewhere in her and they weren’t known for playing games when it came to fucking.

 

“You shouldn’t have come out all this way alone,” Sandor cautioned in a rasp, taking a few steps closer to Vara which only made her smile more. “There’s wolves and worse out here.”

 

“But I’m not alone now,” Vara reasoned, her grin absolutely wicked as she started to undo the ties lacing the top of her dress. Sandor advanced, and she matched his pace, walking backwards until her arse hit the trunk of a conveniently out of place, solitary oak tree and she could go no farther. “I’m not afraid,” she breathed heavily. “I killed a wolf when I was ten. A shadowcat when I was twelve.”

 

“Killed a _man_ when I was twelve,” Sandor growled, placing each of his hands against the tree’s bark, on either side of her head. “You should have brought a weapon. You think a bucket would keep the beasts off of you?”

 

“I don’t want them off of me,” Vara said, pulling at his hair to speak into his ear. “I want one _in_ me.”  Then one of her hands was at the growing bulge in his breeches, squeezing him hard while she bit his earlobe in a way that made Sandor think he’d end up losing another piece of it by the end of the afternoon.

 

“Up,” was Sandor’s order, slapping at Vara’s outer thighs. She climbed him like a bear after honey high in the tree tops, quickly wrapping her legs around his middle and grasping onto the collar of his tunic.  The moment he had her settled and pinned between his hips and the tree she began grinding against him. It’d been _months_ since Sandor had been with a woman. If she wanted his cock, he’d bloody well give it to her!

 

Reaching up under her skirts, Sandor groaned while Vara continued to lick across his neck and pull at his tunic until she could run her palms over the hair on his chest. She was strong! Sandor felt taunt muscles beneath her smooth skin. Higher and higher up her thigh his fingers wandered, until there was a sharp pain and Sandor drew his hand back with a hiss. Vara laughed, pulling at her skirts till they were bunched up to her stomach, revealing a knife held in place with a leather strap around her thigh.

 

“Had a weapon,” she giggled, unbuckling the small belt and letting it all fall to the forest floor. Then she pouted, noting the blood welling up from the cut on Sandor’s thumb. She took the meat of it into her mouth and suckled. Sandor closed his eyes and breathed through his nose while his cock grew all the harder. And then she turned her head and bit him in the webbing between thumb and finger, the final drops of Sandor’s blood smearing from the corner of her mouth, up and across her cheek.

 

“Fuck,” Sandor cursed, his cock throbbing and aching to be set free. Vara’s hitched up dress had revealed more than just her hidden knife; a swatch of curly, black hair with a rose tinted, glistening slit was also fully exposed to him now. That’s where his fingers went in and that’s where they drew back out of, so that he could raise his fingers to his lips and taste her salty essence. Vara grabbed his hand away from his mouth and licked all the way down to his third knuckle, the last of her juices disappearing onto her tongue.

 

“The fuck did you come from?” Sandor growled, lower and harsher than before. There were few whores that could pull off this sort of animalistic passion convincingly, and the fact that Vara was freely sharing it with him made Sandor nearly spill like some green boy in his breeches.

 

Vara laughed again, sounding amused and haughty all at once. “North,” she said coolly. “How do you think we stay warm there? The nights are long and-“ Vera gasped when Sandor sank three fingers deep inside her. He was tired of her talking already. Talking wasn’t what either of them were after. Thumb pressed to her nub, he swirled and rubbed for a minute until Vara was moaning and he could stand it no longer.

 

Reaching for the ties of his breeches, Vara’s hands were there to help Sandor push the cloth aside and free his straining cock. He was more than ready and only let her touch him for a few moments before he pulled her hands up over her head, holding them forcefully between one work-weathered palm and the rough tree bark, and plunged forward into her heat. Her body clenched around him and he shuddered, basking in the slick, fiery hot pleasure of a willing cunt. Vara babbled and cried out in his ear. Sandor heard, “harder”, “more” and “yes” over and over again above the roar of lust coming from his own throat. She managed to free her hands and Sandor felt her nails scratching down his chest, leaving angry looking trails along their path. Her teats had bounced loose from her dress at some point and while Sandor felt a slight stab of disappointment that they barely filled his palm, they _were_ pretty to look at, tanned like all the rest of her and with cherry red nipples, pointed and sensitive if Vara’s cries every time he brushed them with a thumb were to be believed.

 

Placing his mouth over one of the peaks, Sandor tasted the woods and warmth and _woman_. He tried once to draw out of her, and slowly slide back in, but all that did was drive him closer to his end. Vara seemed to sense his urgency, licking her fingers and shoving them down between the two of them to rub within her folds herself while Sandor bucked and slammed her back against the tree. She made a sound the might have been pain but then she cursed just as loud and boldly as he did, as they both writhed and fucked through their shared pleasure.

 

Sandor’s head slumped against her shoulder while his ears rang and he tried to recover his senses.  He felt a soft kiss at his temple and fingers in his hair. Anything this close to an embrace after coupling wasn’t his usual way, but it had been a long while since he’d spilled with such speed and force. His still mending leg was shaking terribly and Vara was humming while she tried to continue riding his softening cock.

 

“Enough,” Sandor said, slipping free from the wildling’s cunt and setting her on her feet. He leaned against the oak tree with Vara, closing his eyes and blindly reaching for his breeches. He drew in a fast breath when he felt velvet around his cock. Looking down, Vara’s brown eyes sparkled back up at him while she kneeled and drained the last of his seed from him, her puckered lips obscenely plump, the smear of his own blood still smudged across her face.

 

Using the hem of her dress to wipe him clean, she finally spoke. “You and I taste well together,” she said, her voice like a snake coiling its way up his spine. “I’ll taste you again some day.”  Then she smoothed her skirts, gathered up her bucket and blew a kiss his way. Sandor answered her with a scowl at first and then smirked when she turned her back to him, noting the mess of tangles and twigs the back of her hair had become. Then she was gone, disappearing back into the brush like some magical sprite of the forest turned seductress. His cock he would give her gladly, but if she was looking for some sort of romantic gesture in return she was going to be one sorry little wildling. If she ever did come sniffing around again, he’d be ready and she would learn Sandor Clegane wasn’t a man to try and rope into stories laced with love.

 

 

 

******

 

 

The Septon often talked to his flock after the morning meal, before work started for the day. For ten or twenty minutes he filled the ears of the community with tales of the past and errors made. Sandor heard the beginnings of the Septon’s stories a few times, when he had over slept, and couldn’t help but pass the seated group on his way to the woods. The Septon would look up during those times, making sure to make eye contact with Sandor, and though he never said it out loud Sandor knew it was an invitation to join them. He never did. He had lived enough of the Septon’s stories and far worse. There was no need, in Sandor’s mind, to revisit any of it.

 

Until, one day, Emma glanced over her shoulder and saw him walking by. She was standing towards the back and far from the Septon, but was the closest in the group to Sandor. Then there were two sets of eyes on him, breaking Sandor’s concentration and slowing his stride. Emma kept her hand low, curling her fingers and beckoning to him. Sandor swallowed. It was easy enough to ignore the Septon; Emma was harder to deny.

 

His course changed, his feet not listening at all to the voice in his head screaming at them to _run_ , quickly and in the opposite direction. Sandor found himself several paces back from Emma, rooted in place. The Septon smiled, a twinkle of triumph in his eye, and Sandor gripped the handle of his ax tightly. He was only there to please Emma, he told himself, although for the life of him he couldn’t understand _why_.  He didn’t have to listen and he sure as hell didn’t have to like any of this.

 

Stepping behind a seated young man, the Septon let his hand fall on one of the man’s shoulders. That one had been a soldier once too, Sandor knew. “I’d like to continue on talking about what we discussed yesterday,” the Septon spoke, clearly, in a baritone he saved for the times he wished to be heard by everyone. “What it’s like to be a good man,” -the Septon nodded to the women seated around him and grinned- “we’ll talk about you ladies tomorrow, I promise. There are different needs for men and women in life and there are some the same.”

 

Sandor sighed instead of making a face as he wished to do. This was going to be a revolting speech about honor and valor, purity and all that other horseshit. “Most of us,” the Septon started, “think we learn from our fathers. Aye, there’s a start there, but that’s not when we become men. For most of us, our fathers are gone, because of death or distance, when we realize the man we’ve become.”

 

The Septon patted the man’s shoulder in front of him. “When did you join?”

 

“Fifteen,” was the man’s answer.

 

“And did you feel a man then?”

 

The young man chuckled. “I thought I was.”

 

“Were you?”

 

“No.”

 

The Septon nodded his head, moving on and looking to another man in the crowd. “How about you Greenesworth? Did you become a man that first day you held a sword? Stood in line? Killed a man?”  Greenesworth didn’t answer, shaking his head with a sad frown on his face. Sandor shifted, unease building with the topic at hand and not knowing where it was leading.

 

“No,” the Septon agreed quietly, walking amongst the flock with his hands behind his back for a moment. Then he looked upward and almost seemed to be speaking to himself, “no, it’s not our fathers that teach us to be men. For many of us it’s _other_ men. The ones with bigger swords and horses and banners. They tell us to rape and kill and take, and then they tell us we are men. But we’re _not_. We’re not men until we put the sword down.”

 

Speak for yourself, Sandor thought. The Septon spun on his heel, looking straight at Sandor, and for a moment he thought he’d said his last thought out loud. No one else looked his way though. The Septon squinted at Sandor while he spoke, “a soldier’s a good man thrust into a bad place. Some forget that. Some never remember it. Some come to realize all those things they learned, determination, drive, loyalty, resolve. . . These are the things that make a good man. And it’s up to the man to put the soldier to rest.”

 

“A soldier is not a bad man,” Septon Ray repeated, never breaking his stare in Sandor’s direction. “He’s a good man who’s forgotten himself.”

 

When the group broke apart, Sandor bolted. That hadn’t been at all what he expected. Admittedly, he had only ever heard the _beginning_ of Septon Ray’s sermons, never the end, and the fragile sliver of hope contained within it was more than Sandor felt ready to try and come to terms with. He wasn’t _good_ for fucks sake.  The Septon was a lunatic! A stubborn, aging, addle-brained lunatic!

 

Sandor’s work that morning was a frenzy of flying wood chips and curses. He never heard the footsteps of the Septon behind him. “What’s the tree done this time?” Septon Ray quipped as Sandor whirled around, ax held high and ready to strike. “Whoa, whoa now,” Septon Ray said calmly placing his hands up. “Sorry I startled you.”

 

“Go away,” Sandor snarled.

 

“Why?”

 

“Don’t need you here.”

 

“Has anyone told you, you’re a shit liar Clegane?”

 

“Never.”

 

“Hmm,” Septon Ray mused. “You’ve gotten worse at it then. Did you find the sermon interesting?”

 

“Bugger. Off.”

 

Instead, Septon Ray slid the leather satchel on his shoulder down to the ground. He squatted and began rummaging around the pack, pulling assorted small bundles from inside. “Sit,” he ordered, untying one of the bundles to reveal cooked sausages and onions baked within their own crisped skins.  Another yielded dried apples. “You didn’t show for the mid-day meal. Eat something.”

 

Sandor’s stomach grumbled nearly as loudly as he did as he set his ax aside and sat down on the ground, his back against a felled tree. He knew he was being buttered up with food, but there was a jar of honey and some of Emma’s sweet biscuits emerging from the satchel and he’d sit through just about anything Septon Ray’s yammering jaws could come up with for them.

 

He went straight for the biscuits, once it had all been laid out, opening the glass jar and dipping the flaky pastries directly into the amber hued honey. Septon Ray chuckled. “What?” Sandor snapped, a spray of shortbread littering the leaves around him.

 

“You can keep on lying to yourself, but there’s a good man buried somewhere in there,” Septon Ray observed, holding a spoon out while Sandor wrinkled his nose at the offering. “Could work on your table manners though.”

 

Sandor did pull a face then. One he’d been saving all morning. “There’s no one here but you,” he said, as if the Septon were dull. “Save that high court shit for raising skirts.” 

 

The Septon barked out one of his boisterous laughs. “That’s fair enough, friend.”

 

Sandor ceased all motion, his hand raised halfway to his mouth while honey dripped off of a biscuit onto his breeches. No one had ever called him _that_ before. Soldier. Dog. Hound. _Those_ were his names. There was no place in Sandor’s mind able to process what Septon Ray had just done, so he sat mute and at a loss as to how to proceed. The Septon wasn’t terrible but . . . friends? The word was embarrassingly foreign, Sandor realized, mortified by the fact that he knew such a simple phrase shouldn’t have affected him so.  It was one more arrow in the quiver of his fucked upbringing and subsequent life.

 

Septon Ray paused as well, waiting and then looking at Sandor with worry. “Something went wrong?” the Septon asked cautiously, leaning forward and pressing his forefinger to Sandor’s brow. Flinching, Sandor drew back at the touch. “Way back. Aye?” the Septon pushed with his question and Sandor felt himself nod, a burning, painful lump settling at the back of his throat. There was nothing but concerned understanding in the Septon’s eyes. “You don’t have to stay shackled to that. The past can be just that. You can break free of it,” Septon Ray said while rising. “There’s time here. And people that want you here. There’s no shame in belonging.”

 

Shoving the remainder of his biscuit into his mouth, Sandor nearly choked trying to get it down. His mouth had gone dry while his eyes had become humiliatingly moist. “Don’t forget about supper,” was the Septon’s final instruction, leaving and giving Sandor privacy to digest both the literal and metaphorical sustenance he’d been given.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

It was a curious thing to observe; two vessels coupling. The Lady tilted her head slowly. One way and then the other as she sat, unseen beneath a tree, watching the Hound and his chosen partner writhe against one another. They’d been at it for much longer than the first time she had seen the two of them rutting; sweating and shameless in the woods like animals. And now here they were, at it again, the dark-haired woman feigning an inability to find her way and the Hound more than agreeable to assist her. After he’d fucked her senseless though, it seemed, the Lady thought, watching the Hound bite at the woman’s breast.

 

Something far and away rippled within her vessel’s lost memories. A man with a strong build and kind eyes, in a time of summer, lying on a blanket of furs beneath a weeping white tree, naked and smiling. He was shorter than the Hound but no less ferocious, in his own way. Her vessel had been swollen with child. It mattered not to the man. He took her carefully, passionately, and kissed the skin covering their child when they were finished.

 

“ _He fucksss her_.” The voice of Vengeance hissed above the Lady. She looked up to see it perched on a thick tree limb, robes of shadows billowing around it. The edges curled and faded like wisps of smoke carried off by a chilling wind.

 

“ _I have eyes_ ,” the Lady replied, unimpressed with her companion’s comment. Even if she had allowed herself to be seen, at this moment, the Lady doubted either one of the vessels before her would have noticed her presence. The Hound was seated amongst slippery rocks, in a pool of water the Lady had often seen him bathe in. The woman straddled him, rocking her hips and keeping the two of them joined. She used the Hound’s shoulders for leverage, while he coiled her hair into a rope around his fist and pulled harshly, baring her throat to him. It was difficult to tell if there was true pleasure in the act anymore for the woman. But, no, the Lady corrected her thinking; the female vessel was weeping, but also begging the Hound not to stop with his brutal treatment, though her face showed pain. The Hound smirked, slamming the woman back onto his cock every time she tried to lift up and away. He was relentless, powerful and self-assured.

 

The display pleased the Lady. This resurgence of dominating muscle and confidence was what the Lady had been waiting for. She had started to fear, when the Hound’s bark became muted and the shield of hatred around him began to weaken, that her promised sword was lost to her. The Septon had been useful in restoring the Hound’s health, but now the man worked against the Lady’s wishes, breathing the contradicting air of hope into the Hound. The community stood behind him, a home that threatened her goal with attachments and loyalties.

 

The Lady kept watch until the Hound finished with his woman. He quickly parted from her, rising and shaking the water from his body just as his namesake would. The female vessel remained in the water, dazed and silent. After using his tunic to remove the last bit of moisture from his skin, the Hound dressed and stalked off into the woods. The woman cursed and called after him but he did not return.

 

The Lady’s face broke into a mockery of a smile, sinister and void of emotion. It was laced with dangerous anticipation. Caked dirt and old blood that covered the permanent, deep scratches on her face cracked and flakes of deadened flesh fell to the earth. Any blade of grass touched by the rain of decay withered until it was left dry and brown.

 

It was time.

 

 

***************

 

 

The last of the huts were complete. New ground was broken where a Sept would be placed. In the afternoon, Septon Ray called everyone together, including Sandor, to pray over the plot of land that would one day serve as their place of worship. Excitement flitted in the form of whispers among the community; everyone was happy to soon have a place to sit out of the elements while listening to a sermon. Sandor supposed, if he were going to be expected to keep showing up, it would at least be nice to have a place to sit that wasn’t rocks or soggy ground.

 

The Septon declared the evening a chance to celebrate the good fortune the Gods had granted them all. A fatted sheep was slaughtered, the men sending cuts of meat to the women to be spiced, stewed or roasted. Children gathered flowers and set tables with embroidered cloths purloined from their mother’s bridal chests.

 

Sandor found himself hauling wood for a bonfire and later, lighting it. With a hefty plate of sticky ribs and boiled potatoes in one hand, he wandered over to a log set further back from the celebrating crowd. He wasn’t entirely surprised when Septon Ray found his way over to Sandor’s secluded spot, two full mugs of foaming brown ale in his meaty hands. The Septon handed one to Sandor and he took it silently, nodding his head in thanks, before placing it on the ground. The sound of a hammered dulcimer being struck and tuned filled the air. It sounded like a cat being beaten to Sandor but the women were clapping and cheering the man on as a tune began. Rocking on his heels, the Septon remained standing, nursing his ale and smiling at his flock.

 

“A Lady’s ball!” one of the younger men shouted. “Let’s have it then, girls.” The youth jumped up and waited on the women to make their selections. One by one the girls and young ladies sashayed up to the men of their choice and asked for a dance. Even some of the older, married women took their partner’s hands, speaking private words into their ears. The men grinned in response, patting their wives’ bottoms and allowing themselves to be led to a circle of dirt free of grass. It wasn’t done in court often, as it was seen as peasant’s amusement, but Sandor was familiar with the tradition.

 

Stuffing more meat into his mouth, Sandor chewed and slurped loudly, knowing he was safe. The girls would have to be mad to approach the likes of him. Then he choked, a coughing fit overtaking him as he saw Emma walking towards himself and the Septon. Ray clapped him on the back. “Not me she’s after,” the man chuckled and then waved at Emma. “Hello, dear! Having a good time? Danced your shoes thin yet?”

 

Sandor was going to murder the Septon. Slowly. But first he had to stop choking and learn how to breathe again. He reached for his mug of ale, gulping down half of it and wincing at the sensation of a large lump of food being pushed down his gullet.

 

Emma looked first at Septon Ray and then at Sandor. Even in the dim light cast by the fire behind her, and a few stray torches, Sandor could see the pink in her cheeks. “No, not yet that is. I was-well, I thought perhaps you’d care to dance?” Emma’s fingers twitched as she waited for Sandor to respond.

 

Sandor stared right back at her. This was uncharted territory. Gods, did he even know _how_ to dance? And he was fucking Vara for the time being. Was it right to start in on Emma? He felt more awkward than ever before and pointed at his plate of food, coughing again, a piece of gristle stuck in the back of his throat. He took another swig of ale and watched Emma’s shoulders sag. She looked . . . sad.

 

_Fuck._

 

He might have been able to backtrack, to somehow make it right, but his pride bristled at the thought of begging a woman’s pardon, especially in front of another man. So he took a bite of meat and shrugged his shoulders at her.

 

“Oh. All right.” she said in defeat. “Perhaps later?” Sandor grunted and Emma turned to walk back and help a group of women gather plates to be washed.

 

Once Emma was busy with her new task, Ray raised a hand and gave him a solid smack across the back of his head. “You could have at least spoken to her,” Ray chided. Each man was momentarily distracted as Vara pranced by, twirling in lazy circles and laughing out loud, her skirts spinning around her. She paused for a beat in front of Sandor, winked, and continued on with her teasing dance. Ray looked between the two of them as Vara skipped over to a younger man and Sandor shook his head.

 

“I see,” Ray sighed. “That’s fair enough, but you keep one thing in mind if you’re going to stay here.” Sandor gave the man a sideways look. “Have you seen any bastards here?” Ray asked.

 

“No,” Sandor answered honestly, knowing the Septon’s exact line of thinking. He hadn’t put much thought into _that_ possible outcome with Vara. Whores knew how to keep time by the moon, or brewed an herbal tea that flushed unwanted seed from their bellies. On rare occasions, they kept the babes, but that was usually to gain coin from a patron with pockets that overflowed with gold. Sandor had never had a steady source of substantial income, being a second son and having most of his needs paid for by the crown. Tourneys rewarded him well but they weren’t a guarantee. No woman had ever approached him, claiming a child was his, and so he had forgotten, here in this community, that the chance of one might come about.

 

 _One might already be_.

 

“Shit,” Sandor muttered under his breath.

 

“Aye, ‘shit’” Ray agreed, a bit of a scolding, paternal note to his tone. “There’s no stopping a man and a woman doing as they please, I know that, but we take responsibility for those actions here. Fuck her all you want, but swell her up with child and you’ll gain a wife, understand?”

 

Sandor grunted, chewing at his lip. Vara was a good fuck for certain but she was also full of herself, bossy and had nothing of value to Sandor besides her looks and flexibility. The thought of a wife was enough to make him bark out a laugh. The Hound of Westeros, a husband? With a little wife at his feet and children rolling on the floor with the dogs?

 

Although . . .

 

If he were going to stay within the community, long term, if not permanently, was the idea of settling down such a bad thing? Not with Vara, but perhaps with someone else. Someone kind and gentle, with a face he had to admit made him smile when he was alone, and teats like summer melons ready to burst right out of their rinds. Sandor stole a quick glance Emma’s way. “What’s her story then?” Sandor asked, pointing.

 

“Emma?” Ray began. “She’s been here three years. Never saw her pay much attention to a man till you arrived. She had a husband once and two young ones as well. Then our kind marched over her village and now it’s only her. You want to know more, ask her yourself.”

 

*************************************************************

 

_There had never been a darkness so thick. Never. Sandor was aware. He was. But there was nothing besides the voice in his head, telling him so. He couldn’t make out the hand in front of his face or the feet supporting him._ _To lose his sense of sight_ _was distressing enough, but there was no sound as well._ _Sandor_ _couldn’t hear his own breath_ _n_ _or the beat of his heart._

 

_Am I dead?_

 

_The question was silent but something answered. “Not dead,” a woman’s voice spoke, rasping and dreadful. “Mine.”_

 

_A pin-point of white appeared in the distance, and seeing no other alternative, Sandor marched in its direction. It took time. Hours or minutes or days, he wasn’t sure. The voice encouraged him. “That’s right. Forward. See what I’ve brought you.”_

 

_The light grew larger. There were shapes within it, bulky and stacked tall. How tall, Sandor, at first, didn’t comprehend. As he drew ever closer, it became apparent that there was some sort of hill with a large structure at the very top of it. It was immense. Wide as a stream and taller than he, or Gregor, or the bloody Iron Throne for that matter. Sandor’s stomach clenched when he realized what it was made of._

 

_Skulls. Human skulls. Hundreds of them. Thousands even. More evidence of death than he had numbers for. All shapes and sizes. Some large and missing teeth. Some small and some so tiny Sandor knew they could only be from babes that hadn’t seen their first name day. Several paces from the mountain of carnage, Sandor stopped suddenly. He could go no further. His foot stepped forward and some invisible barrier kept him back._

 

_The bones at his feet were aged. Bleached white from the sun or yellowed by time in the crypts. As he lifted his gaze higher, Sandor saw clumps of hair clinging to some and others with a dried piece of sinew here and there. Craning his neck, Sandor was able to make out the figure at the top._

 

_He gasped, stumbling back, and tried to avert his eyes, but everywhere he looked the mountain of skulls remained in front of him. Each direction he turned took him right back to the base of the mountain and the throne set at its peak. It was horrible. Sandor had seen a good deal of terrible things in his life. He had gagged, vomited, and drank his way through his fair share of soldier’s laments, but this was something else entirely._

 

_He stood mute, shocked and appalled at the throne made of skulls harboring milky, clouded eyes. Stringy remnants of flesh clung to bone like orphans refusing to let go of their dead mother’s skirts. The arms of the mighty chair were fresh kills, the faces of the deceased showing the horror they had faced in their final moments. And sitting proud, tall and impressive, was himself._

 

_The seated Sandor didn’t move. Didn’t blink or stir. He was dressed in black, rugged armor, spiked and lethal looking. There was a mace at his feet, bloodied and dripping with gore, and a new helm. It was still a Hound, but where the original was meant to intimidate, this helm had been crafted to scare the living piss out of anyone. Demonic, red eyes glowed from within the helm and the mouth held rows of teeth. Each one looked sharp enough to easily tear through a man within seconds. A bastard sword, covered in runes and foreign inscriptions was held by one hand, between the seated man’s legs._

 

“ _What is this!?” Sandor shouted, raising his fists and pounding the air in front of him. Each blow struck something he could not see. A woman laughed. Sandor cried out in frightened rage, one of the few times in his life he let panic overtake him. He continued to beat his fists against the barrier while his seated twin stared off at nothing and the woman’s cruel laughter continued. It was like seeing himself through a window, or being forced to look at a painted scene._

 

“ _Be calm,” the voice hushed in his ear. Sandor felt hands on his shoulder as he struggled for breath. “It is only a vision.”_

 

_Sandor turned sharply and found a pair of eyes he’d seen before. Cold, dead and blue. “You.”_

 

_The dead woman’s eyes sparkled for a moment. “I.”_

 

“ _Who are you? What is this?”_

 

“ _I do not have a name. The vessels call me Lady or Stoneheart. I do not care which you choose.”_

 

“ _What the fuck do you want?”_

 

“ _This.” She swept her hand over the scene before them both._

 

_Sandor’s head shook slowly. “I don’t do that anymore. Not like that.”_

 

_The Lady first looked disappointed, then angered. “Oh, but you will. I simply need to find the key within you to unlock it. It’s easiest in dreams, when the mind is quiet. Sleeping and vulnerable.” She sounded exactly like the promise of a slow death._

 

“ _Piss off.”_

 

“ _All men break. All men have a price. I will find yours and give you that which you desire most.”_

 

“ _And what’s the cost to me?”_

 

“ _I need a sword. A soldier. A man with no future, no prospects. I need a killer, true and loyal. Efficient. Full of hate and rage. I seek vengeance, wrath. That is you.”_

 

“ _Not anymore.”_

 

“ _You lie.” The Lady seemed to study him for a moment. “And yet, you do not know that you lie. I will show you. Tell me what it is you want.”_

 

_Sandor scoffed. A dream, the Lady said. It’s all a dream and she has no power here, he told himself. The Lady laughed again, dark howls of slaughtered mirth that made the hair on Sandor’s neck prickle. “I can hear you,” she said, tapping Sandor’s temple. “No power? You are an ignorant vessel. I will teach you.”_

 

_Sandor felt as if the ground beneath him was tilting, up and over and he was falling. Down into dank and brackish blue the color of mold on bread. The vision in front of him blurred and swayed, colors swirling, mixing and bleeding together to form new shapes. After only a few seconds the scene had changed. It was still himself, seated on a throne, but this one was made of gold, dotted with jewels and lined with the rare furs of white lions._

 

“ _If it’s not the killing you want, is this your desire?” the Lady asked and when Sandor did not reply, chests of Gold Dragons and Silver Stags appeared in the vision. The floor became a sea of wealth, stretching far off into the distance and seeming to have no end._

 

_And still Sandor did not react. “You’ll have to try harder than that, wench. I can earn my own gold.”_

 

“ _Wenches?” the Lady cackled. “I did forget those, didn’t I?”_

 

_There was a whoosh in Sandor’s ear and then there were at least a dozen girls circling the vision Sandor. Each one was pretty and painted, old enough to bed but not by much, curved, pert and all of them smiling at the vision Sandor with lustful gazes. They touched the man on the throne, cooed and sighed over him. They clawed at one another to be the one to refill his cup. They pulled one another’s hair to have the honored place at his feet. Each one begged to be the first he took. Each one said they loved him best._

 

_Sandor’s lips tightened into a thin line and he looked to his boots._

 

“ _Ah, we’ve found a start, have we?” The Lady took hold of Sandor’s face, her palms so cold they stung his cheeks. Sandor wished to pull free from her but found himself frozen, unable to move. “Not wenches though. No, there’s more to my sword’s desires. Tell me. Spill blood for me and I will give you anything.”_

 

_The Lady looked deep into his eyes and the vision began to shift and dance as it had done before. Sandor felt helpless. He couldn’t fight her off with physical strength but it might be that he could send her off his scent. Give her something else, anything else, besides that impossible dream he would carry to his grave._

 

_This time, the vision Sandor was seated in a simple chair of pine, large but with no adornments. The room around him was equally plain, and on his lap was Emma. Her head rested on his shoulder and one of his hands lay across her round stomach, heavy with child. She smiled broadly, joy evident in her eyes, while three boys and twice as many hounds wrestled on the rug in front of them. The fire in the hearth crackled and a pot of stew bubbled merrily._

 

_Sandor thought he had control. The Lady would be satisfied and leave him be. But Emma’s hair caught the light of the fire and for a moment honey turned to copper._

 

“ _Liar!” The Lady’s accusation was true. Sandor felt a hand on his chest and, quick as lightening, a burning sensation shot through him. It would have brought him to his knees if they Lady weren’t keeping him upright._

 

_She was tearing through him, butchering every piece of his mind into morsels of sorrow and pain, searching for the one sweet yearning he had. Watching every weak, humiliating moment of his life, the Lady closed her eyes and swayed in rapture. Each failure and triumph alike lay bear to her. He was both a child and a man. He was young and he was older. He was frightened, broken, angry, heartsick and weary. All of it came at once and the Lady pressed on while he bit his tongue until he tasted blood._

 

_The Lady showed no mercy. “You could have asked for what you wanted. You chose this way instead.” Her head suddenly snapped to one side, halting at a scene she found within Sandor’s mind. It wasn’t true. Had never happened. It was only a dream, and a rare one at that, but the Lady purred when she found it._

 

_She pushed Sandor’s jaw, turning his head and forcing him to look at the new scene forming. This one was a chamber fit for a Lord and Lady. There were lavish furnishings of polished wood. Food and drink, enough for a banquet, was set on table, but none of it held his attention. Instead, his focus was on that of the bed so large it could have easily slept three men his size. He saw himself sitting upright, against the head board, head tilted back in ecstasy and felt his cock stir. He knew this dream well._

 

_A woman sat on top of him, slowly drawing her body up and lowering herself back down to be impaled by his eagerness, over and over again. She sighed and he moaned, lost in something so glorious he had no words to describe it. Sandor could only see the woman’s back, his twin’s hands clutching her hips, but Sandor knew exactly who she was. Red hair, mussed with passion, flowed down her shoulders and back to the very top of her arse._

 

“ _Sandor,” the woman in the vision sang. “Oh, Gods yes.”_

 

“ _Enough!” the true Sandor shouted, watching his twin bury his face in the red woman’s hair as he spilled. “Fuck this. And fuck you!”_

 

_The Lady moved closer, a shadow’s width away from Sandor’s lips. “Show me,” she breathed, before placing her lips over his. Sandor tasted earth and rot and clotted blood. Then the vision was no longer around him. It was inside him and there was nowhere to hide._

 

_He saw himself. Different but still him. Ten years younger and somehow a head taller. Sandor’s hands clenched, digging his nails into his palms, refusing to weep at the sight the Lady had found. The younger Hound had no scars. No burns. His skin was rough and weathered but it was unmarred and perfect in the way only the deformed could understand. His hair was fuller, darker and longer, the weight pulling most of curl out of it. With no need to cover his scars, the younger Hound was clean shaven and had parted his sleek hair down the middle. He looked stronger, more at ease. His armor was a silver wonder with a golden wolf’s head etched across the breastplate. A cape of yellow and black, three dogs in the autumn grass, hung from his shoulders. His sword was sheathed. Not one drop of blood could be seen._

 

_It was an impossibility. It was insane. But the image of himself remade wasn’t what made Sandor’s eyes sting and burn. It was the woman beneath one of the younger Hound’s arms._

 

_Sansa Stark was radiant. A few years older than last he saw her and more beautiful than he remembered. Her fiery, auburn hair was unbound and reached down to her waist. Some had been gathered and tied in a loose crown around her head, jonquils pinned at the back of the knot. Her dress of blue matched her eyes. Her eyes! That was the lance to Sandor’s heart. That was the killing blow. She looked up at the younger, unburnt Hound with nothing but pure adoration. Her hand touched the spot right over the younger Hound’s heart and her lips parted to silently speak three words._

 

“ _Fucking cunt! You fucking whore!” Sandor raged, humiliation washing over him that anyone had seen his deepest secret._

 

“ _A knight!?” the Lady said, surprised at her find. “Truly? Not the kind with titles, no. You’re after the days of old. Fair maidens, tokens, true love and chaste kisses?” The Lady at first smiled, then giggled, and then doubled over with laughter while Sandor boiled with shame._

 

_Sandor’s hands were around the Lady’s throat before he knew what was happening. The world had gone red and he would kill her for her invasion and her laughter! He gripped her throat with all he had, pressing down hard onto her windpipe but she only laughed harder. Her laughter was ominous, evil and low. “You cannot kill, that which is dead,” she mocked, her body turning to mist in Sandor’s hands until there was nothing but the terrible blackness once again. Her voice floated through the stale, unmoving air. “You cannot escape me. You cannot run from this. You are my sword in the darkness.”_

 

Sandor nearly screamed as he woke, the sound stuck in his tightened throat as he bolted upright in his bed. It was dark and for a moment he was terrified he was still in that cave of hopeless dreams with the dead woman. He kicked at the furs, thinking her hands were somehow still on him and scrambled from the bed, losing his footing and falling to the floor. Pushing with his feet, he didn’t stop until his back hit the wall of his hut, below his single window. Looking up, he saw the moon through a crack in the leather flap of a curtain, and choked on cold night air. He wouldn’t weep. He _would not_ , he ordered himself, lifting a hand to touch his cheek and realizing he already _had_. Blinking back a fresh round of tears he struck the wall with his fist.

 

“Fuck you,” he said to the darkness. The moon watched as he sobbed into his shaking palms.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello . . so I originally tried to post this chapter earlier today. And someone pointed out some errors which I knew could only be fixed by deleting the entire chapter and reposting. And in my exhausted, 6 day hack fest of a cold, I ended up deleting the entire story. 
> 
> Reposting is not a big deal. 
> 
> Losing all the wonderful comments and Kudos has got me to the point of frustrated tears. I'm kind of sick knowing the Kudos are gone. Because I know that you know that a lot of people won't even open a fic if it doesn't have a certain amount of Kudos or comments. And here I am 6 chapters in and back to square one. It's so unbelievable hard to earn Kudos for showverse fics, and even harder with those featuring OFCs. 
> 
> If you've been reading and gave Kudos in the past would you please consider giving it again? I really, really, love this story and I promise you it's only going to get better and better but I'm so depressed now thinking no one new is going to give it a chance.

 

 

Dusk. Voices. The clatter of pots. The soft vibration of whinnying horses. Men gathering in small groups to share what little had been hunted or foraged during the day. Tinder catching. Flames growing. The Red Priest never needed anything but a prayer to light the wood in front of him.

 

The Lady walked along the edges of the camp, observing each cluster of weary soldiers rubbing their cold hands over the new fires and waiting on their game to roast. Many of the men, and the few women that made up Beric’s self-appointed Brotherhood, were present. Each was a killer in their own right, though none could match her chosen sword. These vessels were tools; her means to an end. And she had her pick of the lot.

 

The Hound would not be swayed with dreams. The Lady saw this now. After delving through his mind, she knew his deepest desires were a fantasy, a fairy tale, a story with the happiest of endings. The Hound did not believe in happy endings. He scorned fairy tales and there would be nothing she could offer that would bring him under her service.

 

Giving a man the promise of something he did not believe in was senseless. But _taking_ all that he had? Taking was the answer. Break the man and there would be nothing left but a beast for her lead. Then _she_ would do the bidding. She would do the calling.

 

She would rule them all one day; wolves and lions and hounds alike. They would all cower and bow before her. It would all start with the Hound.

 

A voice broke through her thoughts. The Red Priest was near. “My Lady,” Thoros of Myr said with a sarcastic flourish of his hand. “I didn’t call for you. Is there a reason for your visit?” Some of the men cast nervous glances her way. It was always the same. She had never harmed any of them. She was forbidden to do so -the Red Priest’s prayers protected anyone who pledged their lives to Beric- and yet they feared her.

 

 _And they should._ _One day, I’ll crush their bones beneath my feet._

“Stoneheart?” Thoros tried again. His voice was an irritation; a gnat that wouldn’t stop buzzing in her ear.

 

“ _I am searching_.”

 

Thoros scanned the fires and men as well; the butchers and farmers and swineherds turned soldier. “Searching? For what?”

 

 _“I do not have to share my thoughts with you. You do not control me here_ ,” she answered, touching a gray finger to her brow. _“You do not own that piece of me.”_ Her glassy eyes reflected the fire’s light; the glowing crimsons and flickering oranges. Thoros thought of the Seven’s hells that he had turned his back on. They were there, behind the Lady’s eyes.

 

“You can’t hurt them,” Thoros warned. “Or Beric, or I. You _know_ that.”

 

 _“I know it well.”_ The Lady reached for the black chain around Thoros’ neck. Her hand stopped just short of the pigeon’s blood ruby, chiseled into the rough shape of a heart, that hung from the chain. The Red Priest liked to boast that lightning had struck a bush once, setting it aflame and the voice of Lord R’Hllor had told him to sift through the ashes, where he found the jewel. They both knew it was the one item that could harm her. The shriveled tendons of her right palm were still visible from the last time she had tried to rip the chain off of the Red Priest’s neck. Her arm had been left useless and numb for weeks after.

 

Thoros put his hand over the ruby, squeezing lightly and the Lady grimaced. “Let them be.”

 

 _“I won’t harm them.”_ Indeed, she would not. She _could_ not. But what happened to them after they left her grasp? That was not her fault or doing. Fate was a higher power than even herself. She was a pawn to that King just as all the Others were.

 

The Lady’s solemn face gave Thoros reason to worry but there was nothing to be done. He didn’t have full control of her, only the means to keep her close and contained _.  I shouldn’t have called her back. The Lord of Light have mercy on us all, I shouldn’t have done it._

_“No, you should not have,”_ the Lady cackled, her dry laughter echoing inside Thoros’ skull. _“Sleep well priest and pray your heart keeps on beating throughout the night. When you are dead, I will reign.”_

 

The Lady covered herself in shadow. She couldn’t blind the Priest’s eyes, but the other members of the camp were oblivious to her presence as she casually walked among them. Conversations came and went. Whispers and jeers, drunken songs and muttered curses all flowed like a tide around her.

 

“This shit gets worse every week. What is it? It can’t be meat.”

 

“The bread’s gone green again.”

 

“It _looked_ like rabbit. Tastes like the priest’s ginger arse.”

 

 There! There were the men she wanted. The Lady wove her way through the camp, over to a group of three men huddled under the low-lying branches of a willow. They spooned at the thin broth in their bowls with disgust.

 

The Lady inhaled and closed her eyes. To the place that wasn’t, to the nothing she went, and called for those that would help her. When she opened her eyes two forms stood before her. One was male and one female. Both were slim and tall. They kept their arms close to their bodies; their gait was an undulating lurch as they tried to keep their feet from lifting off the ground. Forked tongues flicked from their mouths and washed over their beady, obsidian eyes.

 

 _“You called for usss?”_ Greed asked, his snake’s tongue hissing. _“I do not know you.”_

 

 _“She is the bride of Vengeance_ ,” Jealousy said, blinking her eyes slowly, as a basking lizard would. _“I was there when it took her. Do as she says. She will make us sssuffer.”_

 

 _“Rest assured I will, if you do not do as I say,”_ the Lady told them.

 

 _“We ssserve,”_ Greed said, bowing.

 

The Lady pointed to the three men before them, still arguing over who had the worst supper. _“Make them want. Make them crave. Give them an undying thirst, a hunger that cannot be satisfied. Fill them with unquenchable lust.”_

 

 _“Ánd then?”_ Jealousy asked.

 

_“Then I will direct their path. They will find what they are looking for and I will have my sword.”_

Hand in hand, Greed and Jealousy slithered between the men. Greed spoke into their ears; bleak words that alluded to a future lost to deprivation if they did not stop its course. Each man hunched his shoulders, drew his cloak tighter and felt for the sword at his hip.   Jealousy kissed their lips, licking at the corners of their mouths. Her nectar was the sweet memory of better days; the obscene luxury of a feathered bed and the touch of a woman skilled at bringing pleasure to man. The savory bite of perfectly salted meat and the taste of velvet wine, so full and round, it filled the mouth with flavors of oak and butter.  The fire danced and flashed with unique visions for each of the men.  They were silent for a time and then each spoke at once.

 

“Fuck me but this slop tastes rotten,” the man with the yellow cloak remarked, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

 

“You smell that?” one of the men asked, sniffing his food. “I’m not eating this swill anymore.”

 

“I’d sooner eat shit,” added the last one.

 

All three dumped their food out onto the fire. Steam rose from the ashes as the embers clung to life. The Lady waved her hand in dismissal at Greed and Jealousy. Their influence had worked much faster than she expected. These three vessels were weak. Greed and Jealousy slunk into the woods and back to where they had come from.

 

The three men continued with their list of grievances. “When’s the last time they gave us something decent to eat? Or wine that didn’t taste like piss? Or women, eh? What I wouldn’t give for copper Sally right now.”

 

“Copper? Fuck that. Give me any girl and she’ll take my cock whether she likes it or not.”

 

“Remember the wine from Dorne? _That_ was something.”

 

“Or good, strong ale to raise your blood.”

 

“They can’t give us any of that. Beric’s running us in circles.”

 

“We’ll scout tomorrow. Tell him it’s for supplies for the camp.”

 

“But we won’t share?” That one sounded slightly panicked to the Lady.

 

“Course we won’t share. What’s this lot done for us lately? There’s got to be a farm nearby we can raid without Beric ever finding out.”

 

“With women?!”

 

“Aye, women. And meat and cheese and fruit,” the one with the yellow cloak mused, nodding his head with growing excitement. The Lady suspected he was the leader. She would keep herself unseen and pull his horse’s bridal on the morrow. “We’ll find barrels of ale and sour red, you wait and see.”

 

 

**********************************************

 

 

Vara had two buckets this time. One in each hand and both sloshing water over the forest floor with every lopsided step she took. She dropped them, irritated, as Sandor watched her from the corner of his eye and didn’t try to hide his laughter.

 

“You might offer to help a lady!” Vara huffed, smoothing her dress and trying to sweep her hair out of her face.

 

“Didn’t hear you asking,” Sandor replied, never breaking stride with his ax.

 

“I’ve got to do this four more times! It’s ridiculous! The amount of water they’re all gulping down trying to put up that frame. I’m not going to do this all day, I swear it! My arms feel like they’re breaking.”

 

Sandor shrugged at her, his usual response to matters that didn’t concern him or he wanted no part of. “Everyone’s got a job,” he said plainly. “Best get on with it.”

 

Vara batted her eyes at him. “I’d rather get on with you.”  She looked at her buckets and then grinned mischievously. “Come back with me. Grab some extra buckets and help me, then we’ll have time to play.”

 

“You see this mess I’ve got,” Sandor said, aiming his ax towards a pile of lumber that came up to his waist. “They’ve got to be halved, planed and down to the Sept today. I don’t have time for your chores or complaints.”

 

“Fine, I suppose I won’t have time today for you or your cock.”

 

“Didn’t take you for a whore.”

 

“What’s that to mean?” Vara snapped. Her hands, balled into fists, landed on her hips.

 

“You going to help chop the wood? Haul it up the hill?”

 

“Of course not!”

 

“But you want to set me at fetching water for you if I’m going to wet my cock?”

 

“Yes, but that’s not-“

 

“You’re a bloody, scheming whore. A good one, aye, but don’t pretend to be something you’re not. I didn’t pay last time and I’m not buying today.”

 

“You shit! How dare you talk to me like that! There’s plenty of men who’d do as I asked even if I didn’t promise them a lay.”

 

“Then go bother one of them.”

 

Vara kicked at a bucket, overturning it and then stomping in the resulting puddle of mud. Then she threw the empty bucket Sandor’s way. He dodged it easily, before storming over to her, ax in hand. Taking Vara’s arm, Sandor used enough strength to move her without bruising her. He dragged her over to the empty bucket. “Stop acting like a child! Pick it up and leave. I don’t give a shit if you come back. You’re not the only woman in Westeros.”  Vara wrenched herself out of his grasp, stooping low to snatch her empty bucket, her eyes burning with hatred.

 

“I’ll tell the Septon!” she said with a sneer. “I’ll tell him you touched me! Forced me! He’ll send you away.” 

 

Sandor’s stomach dropped, watching her leave, her voice cursing his name all through the brush. He’d been aware Vara had a temper. He’d seen her throw her tantrums before but never in his direction. And this was far more than a mere child whining after what she couldn’t have. This was calculated and cruel. All the more reason to sever the tie with her, Sandor thought. But how? Now that she had him, quite literally by the balls, it was either submit to her or risk being accused of rape. Perhaps, if he could go to the Septon first? Would he listen? More importantly, did Sandor trust Ray to take him at his word?

 

Flashes of the past months circled through Sandor’s mind. Conversations around a fire, shared meat and drink, a strong hand on his shoulder. They goaded one another in a good-natured way, as Sandor imagined brothers might do. Just yesterday, Ray had looked him right in the eye, telling him he knew who he’d been and that his penance had already been served. Though the thought often left him feeling tangled and knotted inside, it was safe to assume there was friendship between the two of them, wasn’t it? He would be believed, wouldn’t he? Pacing with worry, Sandor made his mind up, frowning at the pile of wood that needed dealt with and stomping off into the woods, intent on finding the Septon as soon as possible to try and explain himself. 

 

A plan formulated in his mind as he walked, ax swinging in time with each step. As long as he could speak his side first, there was the possibility that he could stay and he wouldn’t have to become a whore himself in order to do so. That wasn’t an option; trading his cock for a woman’s silence. He’d quietly pack his few belongings and go before he let a bitch like Vara pull his leash. There had been plenty of that in his life already and he wasn’t going to slip backwards now that he’d begun to learn how to move forward.

 

Stepping from the woods, he made for the unfinished Sept first, as that seemed the most likely spot to find Ray. The Septon wasn’t there. Sandor put a hand above his eyes, trying to block the midmorning sun from his vision, looking over the land in search of Ray’s shape. The Sept was set on a small hill, nothing more than a slight rise in the terrain, but it still afforded Sandor a view of the entire community. The Sept was only beams and a dirt floor at the moment, but the potential was there. The promise of that “something better” the Septon was always on about was being built. There was a certain amount of pride Sandor felt, knowing most of the lumber, the foundation of the promise, had been his doing.

 

To Sandor’s left, the women scrubbed the morning’s dishes in wooden tubs. Most of the men were busy lifting, sawing and hammering away while the younger members of the community herded the livestock out to graze. The cheerful noises of children at play, that had somehow become more of a reassurance than a source of annoyance over the past weeks, carried up the hill from the little one’s chosen place below. Each hut was dappled in sunlight, the day being free of heavy cloud coverage, and the sky was a vivid blue. It was picturesque to the point of absurdity, but each time Sandor was certain he couldn’t stomach one more moment of it, the slumbering Hound inside him rolled over and made room for the simple splendor before him.

 

There was a loud shout, breaking through Sandor’s moment of reflection. The men above, sitting on beams, were shouting to the ones below, hoisting a log up with ropes and a pulley. The twisted groan of straining cords mixed with more cries of alarm, as first one rope and then another snapped. Men scattered as the heavy log came crashing down. Sandor was far enough back to be out of harm’s reach. Everyone else seemed to have darted or dived to safety and all might have been well, but the errant log sprang straight back up as soon as it hit the ground. It rolled past the other piles of lumber and with nothing to stop it, continued to gain momentum and speed as it tumbled down the hillside and straight for the children.

 

They all saw what would happen, but too late. The men yelled at the children, racing down the hill themselves, but there was no way for them to get ahead of the bouncing log, now a gruesome threat of death. Sandor moved as well, too slowly to be of any aid and watched in horror as the log rumbled down the uneven slope. He was helpless to stop the inevitable. A log that size could easily maim a man. There was far worse it could do to a child. The women screamed, finally catching on to what was happening. And the children screeched like young rabbits, some fleeing and some too young to do anything but wail for their mothers and stay still, trusting that someone would save them.

 

There was no one.

 

Most of the children ran out of the way, crying and hugging tightly to the first person they could reach. Those that froze in panic, miraculously stood outside the path of the log. The Septon would surely bleed, bending the knee for hours that night in thanks to his Gods, Sandor thought. There was a blonde boy though, four or five name days old and son of the couple that used to own half the orchards of their town. He ran, but not in the right direction. Instead of sideways, he kept going forward, with the log gaining on him with every step. Even at the bottom of the hill, neither stopped, until the boy tripped. The women’s cries were bloodcurdling, the sound gnashing at something deep inside Sandor. He growled at the memory of a boy in his path and Stranger’s hot breath bearing down on him. The men continued to run and curse, some at the Gods themselves. They raged at the impotence of the situation.

 

It was over in an instant. Where the boy once stood there was now a motionless length of wood. It couldn’t have been the smaller ones, Sandor thought. _No, it had to be one of the big fuckers that took six men to lift._ He lumbered down the hill, assuming there would be a corpse for him to help uncover. Setting his features, he did as he always had; tried to tune out the madness around him and carry on with a duty. Regret and disappointment were pointless emotions to feel when there was nothing to be _done_.

 

The boy’s father reached the scene first, followed closely by the mother, though others tried to hold her back. She tore away from them, collapsing on the ground beside her husband. Sandor could not yet see past the log. Septon Ray was quick to run over and try to remove the frantic mother. She was sobbing the boy’s name, Pearson, and begging them all to free him.

 

“He’s not dead,” she cried. “He’s not!”

 

The Septon pulled at her shoulders and passed her off to a group of women, who took her into their arms and tried to shield her eyes. He leaned over the boy as Sandor drew closer. They could all see that the log had rolled up to the boy’s middle and no further. Leaning down to the boy’s chest, the Septon pressed an ear to Pearson’s body and waited. Sandor saw Ray’s eyes widen.

 

“He’s breathing,” Ray announced. “Shallow, but he’s still with us. I need this off, now!”

 

Sandor moved without thought as to what he was doing. The other men could have gathered and lifted the log on their own, he knew it. But there was a task before him and time was of the essence. He didn’t hesitate. He _did_. Before any of the others could sort themselves out, Sandor squatted at one end of the log, set his feet, gripped hard, and lifted. His damaged leg burned in protest and he swore he heard something pop but it was all in the background; something to be dealt with later. He couldn’t manage the entire log on his own, but enough room was made for two men to drag the boy’s body out and away.

 

The mother gathered up her babe while the father began to weep as well. Emma shoved through the gathered crowd and knelt beside Pearson’s mother, touching the boy here and there. Lifting Person’s shirt, she pressed at his ribs and belly. She patted at his face gently, then harder and the boy’s eyes flew open as he gasped. Pearson coughed once and then his face scrunched up terribly as he began to cry. His mother bundled him close to her chest and wept. Nearly everyone did. Sandor did not. But there was a feeling at the back of his throat hard to describe. Like the time he thought Stranger had been lost to an arrow in battle and then found out the horse had recovered.

 

He tried to leave, and hide his wince of pain, but before he could, Pearson’s mother grabbed the hem of his tunic. She looked at him like he was something sent from the Seven Heavens, as Sandor’s fingers restlessly drummed against his thigh. “Thank you,” she said, voice thick and soaked with earnest gratitude. It made Sandor want to be sick. He didn’t do it for her, or the boy, or anyone else. He didn’t want her fucking praises or tears. Then why _had_ he done it, he asked himself. Pulling his clothing from her grasp he grunted and nodded, walking off to let others deal with the aftermath.

 

It took time to settle everyone. The boy’s grateful mother wailed for what seemed like hours after, joyous tears wetting several handkerchiefs over the course of the late morning. Eventually, the men secured the pile of treacherous logs, the women got on with preparing the afternoon meal, and the children spread out to play once again. Septon Ray and Emma fussed over Pearson, declaring him badly bruised, with a twisted knee and strained ribs, but otherwise unharmed. Nothing was broken or beyond repair with proper rest.

 

When the bell for food was rung, Sandor rushed through the line, realizing eyes were upon him. Annabell’s mother gave him a double portion of stew, with a choice hunk of meat in it and he hardly noticed. He forgot his bread and water. They were all staring. He _knew_ it, yet he didn’t understand why. They’d all had a good look at his face by now, hadn’t they?

 

The children gawked at him, open mouthed and wide eyed, while he found a seat away from others. The men and woman chanced careful glances his way. Sandor sat, horribly uncomfortable, trying to finish his meal as quickly as possible in order to slip off into the woods and complete his task for the day. He turned his back to everyone, but the exposed feeling of being on display didn’t lessen. What in all the Gods names was wrong with everyone!?

 

And then there came the sound of footsteps. So small and delicate, they inched closer to him. A girl, glossy blonde hair twisted into two identical braids down her back, toddled in front of him. Beams of light caught in her hair and made her strands of blonde an unearthly pearlescent. She couldn’t have been more than three name days. In her hands was a wooden cup. She was concentrating, her tongue sticking out a bit while she watched the level of the water as she moved. Once she was close  -too damn close for Sandor’s liking-  she looked up from the cup with eyes the color of spring clover.  

 

“You thaved Perry,” she lisped, large first teeth blocking her speech. _The boy’s sister!_ She held her cup up. Sandor faltered, unsure if the cup was meant for him. When he didn’t move, the girl took his free hand, pulling his fingers open one by one, before placing the cup against his palm. “Water! Take it!” she giggled, thinking he was teasing her. He did as she said, marveling at the tiny, flawless hand touching his own monstrous and calloused one. It was soft and light as air.

 

 _A knight in silver armor_.

 

Sandor swallowed, nothing but a fleeting feeling that he had done _right_ fluttering inside him, quickly being replaced with disbelief. It was a dream, he told himself, only a dream. The little one kept on smiling, digging into the pockets of her dress and pulling out a packet of brown paper. She unfolded it gently, and then let the paper slip to the ground while she clutched at the prize within. It was some sort of treat; a dense cake with fruit and nuts. The girl broke a corner from it, scrunching up her brow at Sandor’s full hands. She stood on her toes, a solution to her problem found, and pressed the sweet morsel to his lips, pushing until he relented and allowed her to feed him. He chewed mechanically, shocked and upended by the girl’s kindness.

 

“Cake!” the girl squealed, taking a bite herself, “Mmmm, good.” She offered him another piece of her treat, laughing at the game of him being the child and she the adult. Sandor let her, bewildered, trying to comprehend what was happening. They ate the entire square of sugar and spice that way; one small bite at a time, back and forth between them, until the girl’s mother approached.

 

The woman held an arm out to her daughter. “Come, Cherrie, you’ve given your courtesies. Let him finish his meal.”

 

Cherrie scampered over to her mother, tripping on her dress in the process, but never crying out. She got to her feet, and made it to her mother’s skirts, waving at Sandor as they both left him, the mother looking back over her shoulder to mouth her silent thanks once again.  

 

 

*****************************************************

 

 

The stars were clear and shining. Sandor watched them, unwavering in their duty, through his window. The day had been revealing; troublesome, but in a way that didn’t anger him. Crickets chirped and frogs croaked. The chorus of familiar evening sounds settled over the land. Sandor let the unusual sensation of tranquility envelope him.

 

It all might work. The world might still be shit –that wasn’t going to change anytime soon- but he could find some semblance of peace here. Day by day, it might all arrange itself into a decent life. Sighing, Sandor tied the leather curtains shut and turned from the covered window. He sat and kicked out of his boots, reaching over his head to pull his tunic up and off. Halfway through the action, a knock came at his door and Sandor let his tunic fall back into place.

 

He’d been careless and left his ax outside. On his table lay a paring knife. Sandor briefly thought of grabbing it, but then remembered where he was; _what_ he now was. What need was there to defend himself here? It was probably only the Septon with one last heartening word to share with him before they both retired. Sandor rolled his eyes. Ray was never going to stop trying to bring him around to a new way of thinking and Sandor reluctantly understood that he didn’t want him to. At least he might now have the chance to speak to Ray about Vara.

 

“I hear you,” Sandor groused when another knock came at the door. His leg was aching from the stress he’d put it under earlier in the day, making his limp more apparent once again. Shuffling to the door, he reached for the handle and gave it a forceful tug. “Fucks sake old man, give me-“

 

Emma stood in the open doorway. There were small sacks in her arms that Sandor recognized from his days of treatment months ago. “I warmed them,” Emma said. “Just like before. You should sit. Lifting that log like you did. It couldn’t have done your leg any good.”

 

“It’s fine,” Sandor argued, his heart at a double pace when he saw that she was alone. The Septon wasn’t behind her. “Nothing like before.”

 

“Please,” she said softly. “Let me in for just a few moments. It will help. It might not hurt now but it will later if you don’t do something about it.”

 

Sandor let the arm that had been blocking her way fall. Perhaps she was right. They had done this before, only it had never been just the two of them. It wasn’t as if she was scantly clad or throwing herself upon him. It was her way; to try and bring her special sort of kindness to where she thought it could be put to use best. It would be easier and faster to let her tend to him than to argue.

 

He chose the bed to sit on and Emma knelt before him, her smile bright and most of her teats, as usual exposed. Sandor’s fingers itched to grab at the ties keeping the rest of them from him. There had been too many fantasies filling his dreams of burying his face between them.

 

Emma placed the warmed bundles over top of his thigh and on each side as well. She chewed her lip, looking to the floor for several minutes before finally speaking. “You don’t care for me.”

 

Sandor shrugged, not a full denial of her assessment, but not in complete agreement either.  She simply didn’t _understand_. “Don’t care for anyone.”

 

“That’s not true. You talk with Septon Ray and sometimes Brax. You hold the babes. And Vara. I’ve seen you speak to her.”

 

Sandor snorted. “Vara would talk to an ox if she thought she could bed it.”

 

Emma tried to hide her giggles behind her cupped hands. Then her eyes become serious once again. “Is that what it is then?”

 

“Is what, what?”   _Bloody hell, he was never going to understand woman’s talk._

 

“You want someone to bed?”

 

“Emma. . .”

 

“I could be someone. I know it. I-“

 

“Why my door?”  He’d had enough. Emma was a good woman who couldn’t lie or deceive if her own life depended on it. There were several men in the community –better men than he- that would answer if she called. Her choice didn’t make sense.

 

Emma hesitated, clearly thinking about her next words. “You. . . remind me of someone. Tall. The hair. The color of your eyes.”  

 

The Septon’s words of earlier came back to Sandor. She had lost her family years ago. _This_ reasoning made more sense. “Your husband?” he clarified.

 

“It’s been a long time since I shared a bed with a man,” she said with a sad smile on her lips.  

 

“You want a replacement?” He wasn’t insulted. Not entirely. It made a certain amount of sense to choose someone who had the same features as someone she yearned for. Whores dressed and acted as their patrons suggested, fulfilling dreams for coin. How many times had he paid for the same? Anyone could, he supposed, with or without gold. It was odd to be on the other side of it all though; the one being asked to bring a ghost to life.

 

Emma shook her head, nervous that she _had_ offended him. “No! I-It could be more. Don’t you think?”

 

“He’s dead Emma. Your children are dead. Fucking me in the dark won’t bring them back.”

 

She held strong at his words until he spoke of her children. Then her eyes filled with water. “You _are_ as cruel as they say.”

 

He didn’t mean to be as such at times, but honesty was always there, ready to leap from his tongue. “The truth is cruel.” 

 

Sandor’s next breath was stolen from him. Emma pushed up from the floor and pressed her lips to his. Where Vara tasted like the woods that bore her, Emma tasted exactly like the biscuits and honey he was so fond of. Her fingers found purchase at his collar and they stayed linked together for several seconds. Sandor’s hands drifted to her hips, cushioned with curves from bearing children. He hissed when her breasts made contact with his chest. 

 

Emma touched her forehead to his, silently asking for his consent. And, fuck it, he was one step away from giving into her when their eyes locked. Hers were blue. Sandor had known that from the beginning, but being so close to them now he saw they weren’t tinged with green like the sea, or dark like a cornflower. They were pale and glimmered like crystals of ice.

 

She was kind and gentle. She was good. Her eyes were blue. But she was not _her_.  He cursed inwardly for not having seen it sooner.

 

Emma wasn’t the only one trying to reach for what could never be. Sandor felt bile rise from his stomach. He could have had her. But what would become of the short lived feeling of rightness that had passed over him earlier in the day? It would be replaced with the opposite. This was all wrong. Taking her, using her to take another’s place was a foul thing to do. At least Emma only searched for warm arms to comfort her once more. Sandor knew his urge would be much darker.

 

He frowned, pulling back and taking a steadying breath. Using a finger to brush at the curl that always seemed latched to her face, Sandor shook his head, knowing he was right sending her away but also wrong in hurting her. Tears leaked from her eyes when she understood his meaning. He felt like shit. Week old shit and piss in a privy. Though he had never been much of a talker, she deserved some sort of explanation. The next words would have been much more difficult to say if the Septon hadn’t worked so hard to loosen his thoughts. “It’s not you, Emma,” he sighed, sweeping a thumb over her cheek and using her same explanation. “You’re eyes are. . .They remind me of someone.”

 

Emma studied him, lifting a hand to cover his own. It felt as if she was trying to dig down into his soul and Sandor let her have her look. Sadness gave way to understanding. Emma copied his actions, bringing two fingers up to trace the scars along his jaw. He flinched and she nodded. “Who is she?”

 

“A dream. A fucking dream.” The words were out of his mouth in a rush and there was no taking them back.

 

“Does she live?”

 

“Aye. Last I heard.”

 

Emma’s brow came together in anger for the first time Sandor had witnessed. Her touch left his face. “You’re a fool, Sandor Clegane.”

 

“Because I won’t bed you?”

 

“No, you-“she stopped, exasperated. “Do you have any idea what I would give to have him back? Just for a day? I would take his place if only I could tell him one more time that I loved him. And you sit there sulking. Licking wounds that are healed and consorting with a wildling while _she’s out there!_ ”

 

“Easy to talk about. Harder to do. Ladies don’t bother with dogs.”

 

“I never said it would be easy. There’s nothing easy about love except the feeling itself. If there’s a chance, the slightest chance you grab it. Take it.” She rose and looked at him with true pity.  At the door she turned. “Don’t be a fool. Find her.”  

 

 

***********************************************

 

 

“You said there’d be a farm!” the short one yelled. All three men trudged through the darkened forest, leading their horses to minimize the chance of a stumble and break. “You said we’d have women! Food! We’ve been out here for three days!”

 

“Shut it!” Lem, the yellow-cloaked one, roared back. “It’s not my fault it’s all been burnt already! We’ll find one tomorrow.”

 

“You said that yesterday,” the fat one said. “And the day before that. I’m starving.” His nose was running and his eyes were watery. The Lady thought he might weep.

 

_They are desperate. Ready._

Lem whirled around and took each man by an ear, while they whined like whelping pups. His innards burned with hunger and his throat was parched no matter how much water he drank. Each time he went into the woods to have a piss he took himself in hand and _still_ his cock throbbed with every beat of his heart. “We all are, you stupid lout!” Lem shouted, knocked the two men’s heads together. “Keep marching. Tomorrow. We’ll find something tomorrow.”

 

The Lady’s pleasure coursed through her. Controlling these vessels, enslaving them to her will, through treachery or guile, it mattered not. It was a wild poison tingling through nerves that should have felt nothing.

 

 _Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow_.

 

The hollow spot that once held her heart thrummed with the word. Tomorrow, she would have her sword.


	7. Way Down We Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical inspiration. Mood music. 
> 
> Kaleo - Way Down We Go
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0-7IHOXkiV8

The air was sharp, cutting through the last days of autumn as surely as a well-honed blade through leather and mail. Steam rose from the river behind Sandor. The water churned, mixing its warmth -retained from summer days gone by- with the cool air above it. It was quiet, save for the snap of splintered wood and his own heavy breaths creating small clouds each time he exhaled. Emma had given him a bottle of watered wine that morning. Sandor accepted her offering of peace without argument, noting almost half the bottle was gone already, most likely due to his actions. Rejection, no matter how noble the cause, was still rejection and he understood the sting of that well enough. But he hadn’t left her inconsolable. She had a strong side buried as deep as his weaker one. There was spirit leftover to share in the morning.

 

Gods only knew how long she’d been saving it, he thought, taking a deep pull. Diluted or not, it was sour and red, and that was what mattered. The woods were calm, serene almost, and the setting elevated the taste of the wine, making it finer than any vintage he’d sampled at the Rock or King’s Landing. He’d been without wine since the night he’d blacked out and Beric and his lot had come upon him. _Fucking Beric and his band of sniveling boys._ Three of them had shown up earlier. Taking inventory, Sandor knew though he couldn’t convince Ray to see it that way. They had apparently run through all the gold they’d stolen from him during his first encounter with the Brothers Without Banners and were now on the search for more resources. He _knew_ he was right. The feeling of warning, swirling within his gut, was back.

 

And then he heard the screams.

 

 

****************************************

 

 

_Autumn’s Child, they called him, when he was very young. Before the fire, when stories still held his attention. He was blessed, his nan used to say and -how he hated to admit it later in life- he had believed her. Oh, everyone coveted the Summer Child for certain; they that knew the secret lifeblood contained in sunlight and warmth from the beginning. They held every shade of nurturing green within them. The variety of hues matched their celestial charm. Mellow stalks of asparagus and rich olives glistening in oil. Striking, assertive blades of grass and the dark shade of the hunters’ cloaks. They knew no hardships and their laughter was a divine hymn. He envied those alluring, sweet summer children._

 

_His nan sat him on her lap and took his chin in her hand. “Autumn’s what keeps us going. You want only green? You have so much more to offer. What happens to the green? It fades to display Autumn’s glory. You hold red within you. The Warrior’s color. Orange and yellow and all the shades between. Autumn gives us the harvest. Without you there is no life through Winter. You are the strength of men, my child. You will carry us through the dark days ahead.” His child’s mind swam with visions of Knights and the place he would one day have among them. It was destined. “You are more than passing green. You are the true gift from the Gods.”_

 

_Six winters he had seen, and a seventh on its way, he thought, trailing behind his Prince and the red-headed Summer’s Child, now his most despised collective. The rocky paths of Winterfell crunched beneath his boots. The sky was soot and ash, just like his armor. He hadn’t done anything with his life but live by the sword, drink and whore. Winter came and Winter went. He did not feel blessed. He did not feel at all._

 

_Autumn, he scoffed. A shit season. Neither life nor death. Neither good nor bad, healing or harsh. There was no definition to it. It was shapeless. It was nothing. He was nothing. His nan was a crazed old woman. The stories were lies._

 

 

***********************************************

 

Sandor raced down a hill at a sidestep, slick grass and fallen leaves causing him to slip and skid. He was empty-handed; wine, blade, everything else was forgotten. Young trees, no thicker than his wrists, tried to trip him. Their branches whipped at his arms while he stumbled and ran as well as he was able. When he ducked low through the brush, thorns scratched at his face.

 

 _Not fast enough. I told him. I bloody told him!_ _I should have made him listen._ _I should have ended it as soon as they arrived. There were only three! It would have been easy._

 

Should have. Just two words told his entire story. He should have left the damned wooden knight alone. He should have watched over his sister better. He should have told his father to fuck off. He should have left a hundred times over at every stage of his life. He should have told Robert about Cersei and Jaime long ago. He should have smuggled Eddard, his daughters and himself out of King’s Landing. He should have spoken up when they beat the little bird. Each time, he chose himself instead, in the form of innocent selfishness as a boy or willful cynicism as a man. He was stubborn, without true honor, hiding the facts from himself at the bottom of endless cups.

 

Should have, should have, should have. Stagnant in his own apathy. Never bringing anything of worth to fruition. He was a fucking coward.

 

Just one more stretch of woods and he’d be there. He could defend. The screaming stopped and Sandor didn’t realize he had prayed until it was over. It was his first and most genuine. _Don’t make me to_ _o_ _late._

 

He didn’t falter or fall, though the landscape continued its assault. A unique fear took hold of his heart. It wasn’t about him. It was about _them_. The ones he swore he cared nothing for, that he could now hear calling for help. He heard them all. Every voice had a name. All his talk of honesty and he was the most talented liar he knew. He could create falsehoods to deceive even himself. His thudding heartbeat betrayed him.

 

 

 

**************************************************

 

 

_His heart pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil. Nothing; nothing in his life had made it beat so loud and swiftly. Three women. Fucking three of them were ahead of him, looking back over their shoulders, laughing and checking to make sure he still followed._

 

_For weeks he’d been coming to the brothel, drinking and trying to summon the courage to flash his gold at one of them. Being a Lannister dog had some benefits after all and he was well beyond the age that he should have already enjoyed them. He never made it past watching one pretty young thing after another, being swept up and away by someone else. The corner he chose to sit in was dark, purposely so, and twice a girl had approached him and then quickly retreated._

 

_Then one night, the only one with auburn hair sat on the footstool in front of him. “Something wrong with us?” she said bluntly. “You’ve been sniffing for weeks and haven’t spent a copper.”_

 

_It angered him. That she would jest about what was obviously the issue staring her right in the face. “Fuck off,” he told her. “You blind or stupid?”_

 

_She startled him, leaping up from her seat and straddling him before he could find his voice to object. “With a tongue like that it’s no wonder your cock’s still dry. Let me see.” she said, pulling his hair back. Everything had gone heels over head in a matter of moments. He tried to shove her off and only ended up spilling his wine down the front of her dress. Peaked nipples were clearly visible through the cloth now stained with splotches of mulberry and plum._

 

_And she laughed!_

 

“ _You’ve got coin?” she asked through her laughter. He nodded. “Show me.”_

 

_He was unpracticed back then. Without thinking, he brought out his entire purse from under his tunic and let her see inside it. Then her smile turned suggestive, one side smirking with lewd ideas and the other turned up with sensual promises. She whistled, a high trill between the gap in her teeth and two blonde girls made their way over. Each one knelt at either side of him. “Our friend has been saving I’d wager. I’ll need assistance this evening to lighten his load.” She looked to him with an eyebrow raised. Yes or no, her expression said. His tongue refused to work. He was being offered all three of them?_

 

_The auburn haired one looked annoyed. “Sissy,” she said, twisting her fingers through the tresses of the girl to his right, “he’s spilled his wine. Help me clean it up?” The blonde leaned forward, covering her companion’s teat with her mouth and suckled. Sandor hadn’t known his cock could stiffen with such speed. It left him reeling and he was thankful he was already sitting down. The last girl didn’t wish to be forgotten, or lose her share of the pot. She placed Sandor’s empty hand over her breast and reached between both he and the girl still seated on his lap, rubbing at his cock and the girl’s heat at the same time._

 

_The auburn haired one kissed him, teasing nips down his jaw that led to his lips. “Fuck me,” he rasped in astonished disbelief._

 

“ _Aye, that’s what we’re getting at,” she answered. “What’s your name, love?”_

 

_His name? The fuck did that matter now? But somehow he stammered out his house name and that’s when he saw alarm on two of their faces for the first time. It was gone in an instant. The Mistress of the house trained her girls well._

 

_His fingers trailed over the wooden beams around him as he walked, reminding him he was real. This was real. How they had gotten from there to here was a blur of more wine, whispered words, and the darker haired one knowingly looking at him when he spilled right there in the chair with the four of them touching one another, fully clothed, as she rode his lap. The wine in his veins sang, bold and vivacious. The night was not over and he was both fearless and craven._

 

_He thought he could go on forever but, eventually, his virgin body’s stamina was exhausted. When it was over, when they’d fucked and licked and swallowed every drop from him, the smallest blonde girl -who hadn’t spoken the entire time- sighed. “You’re better than your brother.” She curled into herself, knees to her chest, staring off at the lone candle’s flame. “He leaves bruises.”_

 

_Sandor felt his scars tingle through the liquor and lust. He rolled over, putting him belly to back with her. His frame engulfed her body, his hold around her secure. He couldn’t explain his brother, his scars, or her fear. The world was grossly unfair. The lines on his face understood that just as the tiny whore’s bruises did._

 

_The other girls joined them, creating a blanket of silken skin against his own. “Your coin is the same as any man’s. Remember that,” the auburn haired one said. “We’ve all fucked worse than you. A face isn’t blood and broken bones. Some of the new ones haven’t learned that yet. They will.” Covered in women and furs, he slept. He felt warm, safe, happy. Things he didn’t know of until that night._

 

_Then morning came and the dream was over. There was a man yelling at him to collect his boots and go home. The bed was cold, the girls were gone and his purse had been picked clean. Love wasn’t real. It was bought and paid for. It was an illusion and he would remember the lesson._

 

_***********************************************_

 

 

It was a massacre, a total slaughter. Arrows and blood everywhere Sandor looked. The Septon hadn’t listened. His Gods didn’t either. And Sandor - _he_ of all people- was the one left standing. The one who deserved death the most, choked on his own life giving breath as he staggered his way past body after body.

 

_They didn’t even take anything. They only destroyed._

 

It was all some sort of waking nightmare. Women and men reached for one another, their hands inches apart when they fell. Children. Dead children under the bodies of their parents. There was a still babe in the slack arms of its mother. Sandor knew his name and refused to think it. Animals, with their throats slit wide open, encircled the human carnage. The flies had already begun to crawl over silent lips and dry, open eyes. The boy, Pearson, that he had saved just days before, lay in a puddle of muck and gore that leaked from the crack in his skull.

 

What fucking point had there been to that? What good had he done? Given the boy a day or two more only to die terrified after watching those around him go first? The log would have been a mercy.

 

This field of horrors was one he’d seen before, but never from the losing side. He was the butcher, not a part of the flock. Until now. Sorrow was not a feeling he had much experience with. He had felt it, once or twice, and vowed never to do so again. Remorse was a concept that happened to others. It had no place in his line of work. All of it and more came crashing down on him. A fist of suffocating loss struck his chest.

 

These people were innocent. Their only crime had been to live. He had done this. Not this particular time, but the men who trampled over his community, he shared a bond with them. He was no better than them. How many places, pure and untainted, had his sword defiled. Places like this couldn’t survive in a world made of filth, built by greed and power. Not with men like him willing to tear it all apart.

 

The dream was over.

 

 

************************************************

 

 

_He came out of the woods damp, splattered with mud and reeking with the pungent sweat of youth. A march, his own campaign, started at home and ended at the gates of Casterly Rock. There was no pause for rest or food. Hatred sustained him and fury kept his eyes from closing._

 

_The guards thought him a beggar at first. He had little with him beyond his clothing and boots. He left with nothing and only one goal in his mind. Once he spoke his name, and showed them his face, two of them escorted him to their Lord’s table._

 

“ _Says he’s a Clegane” a guard told Tywin Lannister. “Smells like a pack of dogs, he does.”_

 

“ _Yes, I can see that,” Tywin answered, his voice calm yet unsettling, a scorpion waiting to strike, as he sniffed the air,“and smell it, as well.” He gestured to Sandor who stood at the foot of the table. “You’re covered in filth. Did your father not teach you some manners when addressing your Lord?”_

 

“ _My father’s dead,” Sandor said, keeping his eyes on the floor. He had learned that at least. His place was beneath the Lannisters and he should keep his gaze downward if he was going to get what he wanted._

 

“ _I heard as much. A raven came yesterday.” Tywin wiped at the corners of his mouth with a cloth and tossed it casually onto the table. “And you came here? Do you wish to squire as your brother has?”_

 

_Sandor’s hands tightened into fists that shook. “No,” he ground out through his clenched teeth. “I want to fight.” He lifted his head. Tywin stared at him through slitted eyelids and Sandor stood straighter to reach his full height; he understood assessment when he saw it. He was tall and bulky for his age just as his brother had been and was. But they were different as night and day, though they shared the same sky, and Tywin was a shrewd man._

 

_The Lord Lannister raised a single finger and a man in armor seemed to appear from the shadows behind him. There was a scar bisecting the man’s face from chin to his left eyebrow. “Take a pallet from the servant’s quarters,” Tywin told the man, “put it in the kennels. He wants to fight. Let him earn it.”_

 

_The decent was bottomless. There was always more to take. Always. When a man thought himself lost completely, his inner being claimed and obliterated, there was always something left over. Tywin Lannister fed off those scraps of men’s souls. He knew exactly where and when to push to take a man to the brink of hell and pull him back out again._

 

_In his mind, Sandor never gave in. He was weakened until he became unbreakable, but he never begged or pleaded. He never wept in front of his master and after the first kill he never flinched at a command. Some might argue he broke in other ways. Indifference. Drunkenness. Callousness. Misery could be measured in bottles. Suffering could be hidden between bitter words. The Hound, Clegane, Sandor, all of it. He would never know how much of which made the whole of him. What parts had changed and what remained that had been there since the beginning? What had been manipulated and what had been forged that could not bend? He could never be sure. Whatever he was, whoever he was, he was born to become._

 

 

 

**********************************************

 

 

Emma was hardest to look at. He shook his head when he passed by her body, sorry to see more loss for no reason at all. She had probably taught him more than anyone else in the community, just like the little bird had done in King’s Landing. He _did_ have a sense of integrity -damaged and likely without value- but it was there, lurking somewhere inside him. There was a part of him still able to think of others.

 

He should have ignored it.

 

_Should have had her. She could have had her happy memory._

 

It was his fault. Again. It wouldn’t have hurt anyone in the long run, knowing what he did now. One night and she could have died with something good in her heart to replace the hole left by her husband and children. In doing right, he’d chosen wrong and one more regret took root inside him.

 

_Every time. Every bloody time._

 

 

*******************************************

 

 

 

_He was going to vomit. He was going to wrench all over his boots if the fucking ground didn’t stop swaying. There was an ax through his skull. There had to be. Right between his eyes. His head throbbed with every step. He spat on the cobbled street, trying to rid his mouth of the taste of bile and strong wine._

 

_Last night he. . . what had he done?_

 

_There was the Tourney. That he remembered._ _Renly’s_ _girlish_ _bedfellow had_ _named him the bloody champion and the_ _nobles_ _and_ _peasants_ _alike ate_ _it_ _up like swine gathered_ _round_ _a trough full of_ _rotten_ _pigswill._ _Why? He didn’t know. Loras was an annoying shit, yes, but he didn’t deserve to be gutted by his brother for unhorsing him_ _and_ _Sandor_ _was the only one strong enough to hold his own against Gregor. It was what it was. It didn’t deserve_ _a_ _standing ovation and it absolutely did not equate in his mind to something that would warrant cheers and smiles from the girl._

 

_The girl!_

 

_Sandor held himself up with a palm against the nearest_ _structure_ _, rubbing at his closed eyes with the other. Sansa Stark, the pretty little Lady, applauded and smiled at Loras and he as if they were the same. And for a moment, a speck of time so small it was over as soon it had been acknowledged, he felt like the man she thought he was._

 

 _Knights and Ladies. Stories and make believe. A world that he knew didn’t exist and one that she still had faith in. Her_ _virtue_ _was insufferable. How anyone could remain so_ _persistently_ _innocent_ _was beyond him. She knew nothing at all! All men were the same; killers, rapists,_ _thieves_ _. They all had their vices one way or another. There wasn’t anything left of_ _the_ _Knights_ _she dreamed of_ _. He’d seen even the untouchable, honorable Lord Stark with glory in his eyes and blood on his sword._

 

_But she had looked at him, her eyes alive with happiness. He wanted her to do it again and hated himself for the thought. The thought grew until it was a picture in his mind. When she was older, she’d be a Queen, more lovely and regal than Cersei herself. The girl’s dresses already swelled with curves, which would only become more shapely over the next few years._ _And as if all_ _that_ _weren’t enough, she was kind beyond measure. She was so wrapped up in her own world of sweetness and_ _light_ _that she_ _couldn’t_ _fathom the_ _dark_ _reality around her. She was the prize all the Knights in the stories strove for. He used to_ _imagine_ _, when he was smaller,_ _that_ _he would be the one to have a true Lady of his own._

 

_One day, those_ _full_ _lips_ _of hers_ _were going to smile and kiss and love someone. It would not be him, he knew that, but he yearned for it all the same. All evening he drank and stewed in his own futile fantasy,_ _until his liquor-logged mind produced visions of her and him in ways that made his cock stir. Brains and balls; they both ached with clashing needs._

 

_He staggered two streets over, from the wine_ _sink_ _he’d been at for hours,_ _to Littlefinger’s brothel and slammed a fistful of gold on the table in front of_ _the_ _weaselly_ _looking_ _proprietor. Baelish made a stack out of Sandor’s coin, letting the gold slowly slip through his hand, counting the clinks. “Did you want two?” he asked, as the last gold piece joined its brothers. “Lilith is free this evening. She’s always happy to see you.”_

 

“ _She’s happy to face the wall and fuck for my gold,” Sandor snarled. “_ _Don’t want her.”_

 

“ _The girls that are free are in the great room if you’d like to cho_ _o_ _se.”_

 

“ _Red hair! Bring the ones with red hair. Ones that work best on their knees.”_

 

“ _I have several you may like,” Baelish replied, a haughty smile_ _spreading over his face_ _. It was unusual for Sandor to make requests, and rare_ _r_ _still for him to be so specific._ _Sandor had observed the rat touching the girl’s hair earlier in the day._

 

_Bae_ _lish moved from behind his table and Sandor backed him up to a wall, his gloved hands balling Lord Baelish’s fine tunic into a wrinkled mess. “Keep your fucking mouth shut about it,” he rasped._

 

_Lifting his empty palms, Baelish grinned. “Of course, of course. What sort of business would I have if I told all my clients’ secrets? She’s a vision, isn’t she? The little lamb of Winterfell?”_

 

_Sandor shook the man. “One more word you walking cunt rag and I’ll smash your teeth in.”_

 

“ _You’ll put me down and take your girl or Robert will hear about all of it.” Baelish snapped,_ _politeness over with_ _. Sandor forced his hands to open, the_ _leather creaking_ _as_ _Littlefinger_ _found his footing. “Good dog,_ _so loyal to your master_ _” he said, as he adjusted his clothing back into order. “Come,_ _y_ _ou’ll take the green room and I’ll bring the girls to you.”_

 

_He selected only one; the tallest with wavy, copper colored locks and blue eyes that weren’t an exact match, but would do. More strongwine appeared, -from where he didn’t know or care, as he collapsed into a chair. The whore did as she was told, parting the pleats in his clothing and taking him into her mouth. She kept her eyes shut._

 

“ _Look at me,” he growled, pulling her hair to keep her face tilted up._

 

_The rest of the night. . .the rest was lost to him. All he could remember was red and blue and plump lips fucking his cock. He didn’t know when or if he spilled. He didn’t know when he finally passed out._

 

_Sandor gagged and wretched, trembling as he focused on remaining upright. Nothing came up from his heaving. It wasn’t the wine making him sick, it was the knowledge of what he’d done. It was madness and careless as well. If he’d been sober he would have taken his business elsewhere and tried to be more discreet. If he’d been sober, he snorted, he wouldn’t have tried to vicariously fuck the daughter of Winterfell. There was a new room in hell being built for him, an old dog circling around a Lady like she was nothing more than a bitch in heat._

 

_He heaved again and again and again._

 

 

_***********************************************_

 

 

The gallows where the Septon hung were made from the beams of his own place of worship. His treasure, his gift to the world, the one Sandor helped build, was now the support that held his dead body.

 

Hollow and empty. Sandor was numb. Then there was more. Disgust. The world was never going change.

 

_Stupid man. Fucking stupid old man. And I’m twice the fool for believing him._

 

There was no room for anger. It was skipped over, forgotten, and fury stepped in to fill him up, like wine pouring into a cup until it ran over. His oldest, dearest friend embraced him, the familiar comfort of driving rage erasing all else from his mind; a reaper sent to clear that which would only stand in its way. It spoke to him like a long-lost lover.

 

_They’re_ _all dead because of you. You put down the sword and now they’re dead. Forty, fifty gone because you wouldn’t face three._

 

He couldn’t watch Ray swing any longer. There were men to track and he _would_ find them. His rage would relish in their dying moments, take pleasure in their screams and find its peak when their last breath was taken. Vengeance would be his.

 

 

*********************************

 

 

_Love was a shackle. An anchor to drown a man. No man should ever have to carry love in his arms, cold and swaddled in death. No boy should have to endure that torment. But a boy he was. And she was dead._

 

_It was snowing. Flakes of it clung to her lashes. They did not melt. Her lips were blue, yet smiling, as if in slumber._

 

_Her dress, streaming with water, froze to his tunic. He should not have been able to carry her weight. She seemed to weigh nothing at all. Tears turned to ice on his cheeks. His feet were numb. He walked. Love was a shackle._


	8. Heroes Always Get Remembered, But You Know Legends Never Die.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you've been waiting for the story to progress beyond the community (or you really can't handle Sandor with an OFC), this is the chapter to start with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Warning* Brief flashback of Sansa and Ramsay's wedding night. 
> 
> Musical inspiration - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7qFF2v8VsaA
> 
> Panic At The Disco - Emperor's New Clothes 
> 
> Roll with it. We're having fun now!

She could not have envisioned a more perfect outcome. After the raid, the blood and the carnage, Lady Stoneheart left the Hound his ax, a few paces back from the Septon’s swinging corpse. The Hound had placed it near his hut that morning and never questioned its sudden reappearance as rage overtook him. Her dark prayers were answered when he stormed off in search of those that had pillaged the small community.

 

He showed no mercy when he came upon the first group. They weren’t allowed a single word before he gutted and hacked his way through all four of them. He _enjoyed_ it. The Lady could taste the honeyed flavor of ripe revenge as the Hound brought one of them to his knees, toyed with him and mocked him before finally ending his life. The forest floor soaked up the men’s blood as if it were alive and just as thirsty for revenge as the Hound.

 

The Lady stepped through the woods carefully, breaking a branch here and there to keep the Hound on the right path. When he met her Brothers, he pleased her once more, all his bite and bark back, doling out threats he was more than capable of seeing through. He let one of the captured men beg before kicking the block of wood out from under him, watching the bound man struggle and gasp for air. The Lady could see the Hound’s thoughts. He watched the one in yellow for a few moments, imagining a different, more holy man in his place, before dropping to the ground, letting indifference cloak him and filching the dying man’s boots.

 

Beric did not disappoint her, either. The man’s odd sense of justice and still standing loyalty to the late Lord Stark, gave him the words necessary for the Hound to pause and listen. He agreed to follow them to a larger camp, half a day’s ride from their location, but he was not yet convinced he could bring any good to the world. He was a man void of any purpose. No ties and no future. Angry and ready to fight once again. He was exactly as she wanted him. She would allow him one night’s rest. He was going to need it.

 

 

**********************************

 

They gave him Lem’s horse and saddle. They tried to give him his sword as well and Sandor told them to bugger themselves with it. The horse he’d take to save his feet. The beast wasn’t to blame for following its master’s orders. But there was nothing that could convince him to touch the sword that may have tore through Emma’s heart or bashed in Pearson’s skull.

 

They rode in relative silence which was to Sandor’s liking. Thoros would whistle a tune every hour or so but it was quiet other than that. Sandor almost slept in the saddle. The previous night was filled with nightmares; the village burning, while he stood at the edges and watched. He guided Stranger through a swamp of blood that reached higher and higher, until he was wading through it and Stranger drowned in the muck. In the last, Sansa tried to flee from him the night of the Blackwater. In return, he pinned her to her bed, held a knife to her throat and told her to sing for him as he pushed a leg between her thighs.

 

 

Sandor shook his head, trying to remove the lingering dreams from his mind. He was _tired_. Not in flesh though; this weary feeling went far deeper and had lodged itself inside him.

 

_Never to late too stop robbing people. Stop killing people and start helping people. It’s never too late to come back._

 

_You can still help a lot more than you’ve harmed, Clegane. It’s not too late for you._

 

It wasn’t the first time Beric and Ray’s words had echoed one another. Beric was a lunatic and his valor-laden speeches were easy enough to disregard. There _was_ a too late. It had been that way since Sandor had pledged himself fully to House Lannister. Sandor would have to find a way to help thousands if he were to ever come close to the numbers he had put in the grave since then. Beric spoke of terrors in the night. What evil could possibly be so great that he could balance the deficit his years of loyal service had totaled? And why should he?

 

Sandor scoffed when the Septon talked of reasons. But he wanted one now. Slaying the men that ransacked the community had felt right, but it did nothing to change what had occurred. They were dead. All of them. Victims and murderers alike. There would be no more Emma, no Vara, no Ray. There was no one to claim him as he, Sandor, was. The Hound was all he had left. And if that was his reason, if that was all he was good for, he’d do as he’d always done. Only this time, an ax would do the killing.

 

 

***************************

 

 

Sandor understood Beric’s cryptic words by the fire last night as soon as they broke the tree line of the Brotherhood’s main camp. Beric had told him to give it only a day, to come see their camp, and he was certain it would be worth his time. It made sense now. In the gathering crowd, he saw two familiar forms. One was tall and gangly. The other shapely with long, dark hair.

 

Brax turned to face the returning party, and Sandor felt his heart stop for a moment. In the lad’s arms was Annabelle. He dismounted with haste while Brax tugged at the woman’s elbow beside him. Sandor pushed through the crowd of men and women, ready for new gossip, orders or supplies. Brax waved excitedly as Vara’s eyes seethed with the same hatred Sandor had witnessed the last time he saw her. He ignored the both of them, reaching for Annabelle, and Brax gave her over. Sandor held her high above him and looked at her from every angle, checking for any sign of injury. Annabelle cooed and tried to pull his hair, her pretty blue eyes sparkling down at him.

 

“Put her down!” Vara shouted. There was dried blood splattered over the lower half of her dress. “You’ll drop her! Don’t need anyone else dead!”

 

“You’re alive!” Brax exclaimed, wiping at his eyes. “I thought it was only us. Everyone else. . . they didn’t. . .they’re not-”

 

“I know,” Sandor said, lowering Annabelle to his chest but not giving her back to either one of his fellow survivors. “She all right?”

 

“She is, no thanks to you! Where were you! I couldn’t do it on my own! I’m lucky to have gotten these two away! Where were you?” Vara punched at his side and kicked at his shins as she yelled.

 

Sandor kept a hold of Annabelle with one hand and shoved Vara away from him with the other. “I tried. I came. I was too far out.”

 

Vara began to cry, something Sandor had never seen her do before. “They’re all dead! I couldn’t save any more! If you’d stayed closer instead of always going off on your own they’d still be alive!” She fled from Sandor, and Brax moved to go after her.

 

Sandor put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Let her go,” he said, handing Annabelle back. “She wants someone to blame. I’m used to it.”

 

 

****************************

 

 

In the dead of night, the camp slept. All but four men, who split two shifts of guard duty between them. Shifts were rotated daily to offer all a chance at proper rest. Sandor had not been asked to stand guard and he didn’t volunteer. He took his borrowed horse blanket and laid it out on the outskirts of the camp, unsure if this was now his place and not wishing to give the impression yet that he had chosen to stay. Numbers were better than being alone though and, for now, the Brotherhood would do.

 

Sandor watched the starless sky, the clouds above obstructing them, until the last sounds of the camp settling in for the night diminished. Then, he too closed his eyes and let slumber have him, his back to the camp and one hand touching his ax. It didn’t last long. An hour, maybe two, and something woke him. He kept his eyes shut and his breathing slow, feigning sleep and listening. There were no clues carried by the breeze. All seemed well, the normal snores of men, and the calls of far off animals, were all there was to be heard. But there was something out there, watching. He could sense it. His hand slowly tightened around the handle of his ax and he tensed the muscles of his legs, ready to stand to fight.

 

“ _Clegane_ _,”_ a voice called. He immediately pushed up on an elbow, squinting and searching for the source of his name. It had come from inside his head, that voice from the past come to haunt him! It sounded like _her_ ; the one from the dreams he tried to forget. The Lady. The quickening pace of his heart pounded in his ears.

 

The camp was still. Men and women coughed or shifted in their sleep. One mound of furs moved in a rhythm suggesting both a man and a woman were engaged beneath them. The fires were low and the horses quiet. Sandor turned to the woods, expecting the Lady to be in front of him. There was nothing but trees. A gentle wind rocked the last dead leaves on their branches.

 

He let out an uneasy breath. Too much action and not enough sleep, he told himself. Then a flash caught his eye. A hint of color, not the trees, nor the brush or leaves piled on the ground. Soft and cloth-like, the color rippled and disappeared. It didn’t belong. Rising, Sandor took a step towards the woods then hesitated, looking back to the camp.

 

“ _Wake them and they die,”_ the voice said. _“I want you. Only you. Come.”_

 

Sandor tightened his grip on his ax. The last physical link to his community was all the protection he had against whatever she was. She said she wanted only him and there was enough blood on his hands already. Beric and his lot could eat shit for all he cared, but he would not add more lives to the count his cowardliness had tallied. Guilt took his steps for him into the woods.

 

There was little light to guide his way. The moon was waning and the heavy cloud coverage made a shield that blocked its pitiful glow. Fog rolled in to cover Sandor’s boots as an eerie sense of foreboding came over him. He might be walking the path to his death, and he probably deserved it. The setting seemed right for an ending. All sound was gone, not one frog or insect to be heard. The wind blew across his cheek but the rustle of leaves was gone and it was too much like his dream of darkness. He stopped. Fuck this, he thought, if it’s me she wants let her do the walking.

 

“Show yourself, bitch,” he called into the night. “You want my life, then come and take it!”

 

The calm wind became a forceful gust of air, whipping his hair into his face and making his clothing billow. Fog swirled up around him as a vicious laugh he’d heard before came from all sides. He turned around, over and over again in a circle, trying to find its source. The laughter was far and near; across the woods and in his ear. There were shapes in the fog. Half melted faces and disembodied arms, translucent hands that grabbed his tunic and dissolved as soon as they touched him. Swinging his ax, he chopped at the ghostly arms, but when one fell, two replaced it.

 

Suddenly, the fog retreated as if pulled by invisible chains. A widening circle appeared; a clearing void of grass, covered in barren soil, and surrounded by crooked, ancient-looking trees. They were bent into broken angles, the bark a ghastly, luminescent blue. Serpents twined around the warped branches and rats scuttled between twisted roots. The sky above was clear and dark as a cave, with not a single star still to be found. But the moon was high, full, and larger than Sandor had ever seen it. All the colors of a sunset painted its surface, a warning of blood soon to be spilled.

 

It was not where he had been before.

 

There were eyes dotting the cursed forest around him. Green and yellow and red, they flickered like fireflies, but Sandor knew they were not so gentle. Tall and short, the eyes blinked at him, from a hand off the ground, to above the tree line. A host of demons come to witness his final battle.

 

“ _You think I want you dead?”_ Sandor nearly leaped out of his skin when a shadow sprang up beside him. The shadow pulled its hood back, revealing the Lady’s bloodied face and tangled, rust-toned hair. _“No, my sword,”_ she shook her head. Her lips never moved but Sandor heard her clearly. _“I want you well and living. Why do you think I sent help your way? Made sure you had food and warmth? I gave you a woman to quiet your lust. All of it to make you strong again.”_

 

“You’re a witch!” Sandor held his ax aloft, waiting for the attack he was certain would follow. The Lady held out her hands in response and Sandor eased his stance. There was sinew visible through the palm of one, a wound that should have left her weeping, yet she acted as if it didn’t exist.

 

“ _I was once a vessel, like you. But the Others claimed me and I promised myself to them.”_ She held a hand to her breast. _“My heart was taken and in its place rests stone. I became one of the Others.”_

 

“Others?”

 

“ _The ones beyond. Your Gods and Devils. They that rule the cosmos. You are so small. Your world is but a speck among many. Light and Darkness were first and from them Good and Evil were born. They took a liking to men and, in giving them rule of this world, men granted them more children. Truth, Justice, Hate, Vengeance. Countless names men have given us. We are all there is when nothing is left.”_

 

“That them?” Sandor swept an arm toward the trees. Chattering knocks answered him, the sound of bones rattling against one another. It surrounded him, the mocking sound from the grave. _Whatever they are, they’re laughing at me_.

 

“ _No.”_ The Lady seemed almost amused. _“They are nightmares, but fear not. They only wish to watch.”_

 

“You’re real? This isn’t a dream?”

 

“ _It is and it isn’t. You are not sleeping. But this is part of my world. This is where the magic runs deepest. Vengeance gave me the power to do whatever I wish. And now, I will give the same to you. Lower your weapon. It will do you no good here. We have much to accomplish.”_

 

“Fuck you. Told you before, I’m not serving you.”

 

“ _Your Septon prayed before he died,”_ the Lady said _,_ harsh words that pierced through Sandor’s shell of anger. _“The pretty one too, she prayed for you to come and save her. And the babes, they cried. Did you hear them?”_

 

Sandor lunged with a roar, aiming his ax for her heart, and hit nothing but air. The Lady vanished and instantly materialized behind him. _“Stop that!”_ she shouted, _“You can’t kill me.”_

 

“I can try,” he growled back, facing her.

 

“ _Did you love them?”_ the Lady asked. _“Did you care for them? How does it feel to know they’re gone? You know you could have stopped it.”_ Sandor ran at her this time, boiling rage racing through his veins, and froze at her next words. _“There is another you care for and I know where she is. She lives and you can still save her.”_

 

Sandor’s grip weakened, the ax sliding down until it rested just above the ground. She had to be some sort of God or Devil, as she said. Each one, he believed, would revel in tormenting a man so. “You know shit,” he challenged.

 

The Lady approached cautiously, bringing a hand up to his face, and Sandor couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through him. Her touch was sickness and decay crawling over his skin. _“You forget,”_ she said, _“I’ve seen inside you. I’ve seen the very essence of you. At its core there is a_ _wolf_ _of both Summer and Winter._ _Your “little bird”._ _She is waiting for her Knight. Look.”_

 

The landscape blurred and ran past the both of them, colors sliding downward like tears making tracks across a whore’s painted face. As the forest faded, gray, stone walls took their place. The Lady held his wrist as a room came into focus and did not let go. Sansa was there! Sandor started, shame blooming in his chest that he was unwashed and poorly dressed in front of her and she was. . .breathtaking.

 

Dressed in ivory head-to-toe, a mantel of wolf’s hide on her shoulders, Sansa’s hair was skillfully braided and twisted into a crown of flame. She was taller and more womanly in features; the unequaled vision Baelish had once spoken of. She was the song in men’s hearts, the beauty that brought them to their knees, the purest of sights. Sandor made to take a step towards her and felt a tug on his sleeve.

 

“ _It is a vision. The past,”_ the Lady explained. _“She cannot see you, nor hear you. You are nothing but a ghost to her.”_

 

There were others in the room, two men, Sandor realized, his attention taking in the entire scene now and not just the pinpoint of light that was Sansa. A trembling, twitching man in worn, soot colored clothes stood near the doorway. He kept his gaze to the floor and his shaggy, unkempt hair fell into his eyes. The other was dressed in rich browns with hints of deep red, fresh leather and polished boots. That one circled Sansa, talk of virgins and brides and honesty interspersed throughout a conversation Sandor struggled to understand. There was something familiar about each man.

 

He didn’t like the way the fancier one looked at Sansa; a man assessing the horse he’d just been told was of great lineage and he had yet to be convinced. There was more to it than that though. There was the tight manner of standing, the unsettling, calm voice that betrayed a hidden side, and the glint of danger in the man’s eyes. Too many tells that made Sandor reach for his ax, but it was gone!

 

“ _There is nothing to be done. It has all come to pass. Watch.”_

 

“Who are they?”

 

“ _That one is Theon Gr_ _e_ _yjoy, once a ward to_ _H_ _ouse Stark, and now a servant to Ramsay Snow, Lord Bolton’s bastard,”_ the Lady said, first pointing to the gray man and then to the other. _“Ramsay took his servant’s manhood and_ _sent it home to his father_ _and sister_ _._ _He fed others bits of_ _Greyjoy’s flesh_ _to his dogs._ _He is a son of Evil. And he is now the groom of Sansa Stark.”_

 

Bolton’s bastard! The skin-flayer himself! Touching and kissing the Lady Stark! Outrageous! Fucking lunacy! Sandor growled, making a fist. “There’s no stopping this?”

 

“ _It is done.”_

 

“Fuck!” Sandor ground his teeth, watching Theon try to exit the room and stopping when Ramsay ordered him to stay and watch. Watch! As if she were nothing more than entertainment to be had, a trinket to amuse and toss aside when he grew bored of her. When he heard her gown rip and saw the pale canvas of her backside, Sandor looked aside, as he’d done at the Red Keep. Ramsay shoved Sansa, face first, onto the bed and Sandor turned to face the wall, the same nauseated feeling after his night at Baelish’s overtaking him. She didn’t want Ramsay. That much was clear. And the bastard never bothered to give her a moment to adjust. Rough and unmannerly as he was, even Sandor understood a woman needed either time or oil to prevent pain. This was not what wedding nights were. This was _not_ the story she deserved. There was more tearing of cloth, fat tears spilled from Theon’s eyes and Sandor held his hands over his ears when he heard Sansa cry out.

 

“Enough!”

 

Sandor roared in anguish, the bedchamber gone in a puff of smoke, and the Lady’s forest back again. All the torment and suffering he’d seen in life, all the rotted, putrid, false acts of chivalry and honor he’d had to bear witness to. It was nothing compared to what the Lady had shown him. There was a plane of rage he did not know he could reach until that moment. He had saved her once! The little bird would have been raped and worse without him. He had felt like a savior for one perfect moment -with her slung over his shoulder and both his katar and sword bathed in blood- and it had all been for nothing! He had _failed_ her. And that was a deed he could not live with.

 

“How long?” he asked through ragged breaths.

 

“ _Thirty nights she lived in that room, and then the young man, the one that watched her raped on her wedding night, he helped her escape. She is with Jon Snow now, the Stark bastard, her half-brother. She is safe from her husband’s cruelty but she mourns the life now lost to her. She is without a home, without a proper family. She grieves though she keeps a face of stone. She is waiting.”_

 

“Where?” Each question was a demand. The time for action was at hand. His worst fear – that she was still Ramsay’s prisoner- had been relieved, but his hatred was a terrible tide ready to flood Winterfell and drown every one of Bolton’s banners.

 

“ _North. She is near. Seven days, perhaps less. I will give you all you need to protect her.”_

 

“Why?”

 

“ _I too, want to see the Stark line secured. All of them. Robb was lost but four remain and a half-blood descendent as well. I want them all. Swear to me you will find them and I will give you power beyond all imagining. You are strong. I will make you stronger. Swift as water. I can give you the eyes of an eagle and the ears of a shadowcat. I will make you invincible to all men. And with that strength, you can keep her safe.”_

 

“What do I do?” The need to atone, which only the little bird seemed able to draw forth from him, weighed heavier on his shoulders. He would restore her and her house, no matter the cost to him. He would give all to see her captor beaten and buried, anything to remove Ramsay’s foul mark upon her.

 

“ _Swear loyalty to me. Swear to seek vengeance upon those that have torn House Stark asunder. Be my sword and march North. Protect her and the bastard. Find the others.”_

 

There was no decision to be made. The path forward was clear.

 

“I swear. I’ll go after her. The others too. I’ll shove my sword so far up that whoreson’s arse he’ll taste steel. I swear it!”

 

Thunder boomed in the distance. Soul-stealing howls sounded from the woods. The earth beneath Sandor’s feet groaned and cracked wide open. Vines, desiccated and dry as aged ropes, spewed forth from the holes, wrapping themselves around his wrists and ankles, locking him into place. He struggled and they pulled tighter, digging into his flesh and scrolling up his legs. Offshoots wriggled beneath his tunic, winding around his torso and constricting his breath. His arms were spread wide and his body exposed; he was at the mercy of Lady Stoneheart. A vine snapped under the strain as Sandor fought them.

 

“ _Be calm. Be ssstill.”_ A new voice! One that spoke of every horror the world contained. It was the last beat of a heart, the candle of life as it snuffed itself out. The Lady held out a hand and a creature, a gaunt monster of a man, all teeth and robes and tapered fingers, reached out to her. _“He_ is _impressive. Look at him. Even now, no tears, no begging. He fights. Other men have soiled themselves over less.”_

 

“The bloody fuck is that?” Sandor bellowed, huffing like a speared bull, his muscles straining against his bonds.

 

“ _Hush,”_ the Lady warned. _“This is Vengeance. I am his bride. He is your Lord no_ _w_ _. You will show him respect.”_ She cupped her hands and held them out to Vengeance. Sandor watched in sickened fascination as Vengeance used a claw-like fingernail to cut at its own wrist until black fluid seeped from the wound. Drop by drop the Lady’s hands filled with the oily substance and a noxious scent filled the air.

 

 _“There will be pain but it will be nothing you cannot bear.”_ The vines squeezed and pulled Sandor into a hunched position, eye-to-eye with the Lady. There was a brief hint of life in her eyes and the shadowed warmth collected there spoke of admiration as she held the vile blood of Vengeance up to his lips. _“You are a Prince born of sorrow. A royal in the realm of suffering. You are strong enough to survive this. Drink.”_

 

He hesitated for only moment. The cup that was being offered was poisoned, and though he might survive, as the Lady promised, the chalice composed of her dead flesh would not grant him an easy reward. But a swarm of images flew wildly around his mind -the little bird, hurt, weeping, beaten and forced against her will. What was one more kick to a dog in comparison?

 

Sandor’s lips parted as he drank his Lord’s blood from the hands of death.

 

He expected heat and there was none. It was cold and thick enough to choke on; like lard, it was more solid than liquid. Viscous frost coated his mouth, numbing his tongue and he was glad for it, the smell and taste muted somewhat. But there was festering waste and rot buried under the ice. Sandor swallowed all that he was given as fast as he was able. A waxy scum covered his teeth and the back of his throat felt like he’s eaten nettles.

 

Once the last drop was gone, the vines keeping Sandor in place released their hold on him, slithering back beneath the ground. He reached for his throat, rubbing under his chin. It felt like something was lodged in his windpipe, cold and wet and _moving_. Lady Stoneheart leaned on the arm of Vengeance, a perverse picture of a girl in love. Vengeance did not stir or blink.

 

“Fuck me, that was-” Sandor hacked and spat on the ground. His throat continued to itch and the cold, clammy, _thing_ inside him could be felt moving lower. Down his chest and towards his stomach. He never finished his thought. The moment the frigid lump hit his gut it switched from ice to _fire_.

 

It burned! Hotter than the fire of his youth. Fuck all the Gods, the Seven Hells were burning him from the inside out! He couldn’t find his breath as he clawed at his tunic, raising it in time to see his own flesh ripple. Something beneath his skin wriggled. From his core, out along each rib and down to his navel. Up to his heart, making for his arms! Strange symbols erupted over his torso, red welts branding him. Farther and farther the burning sensation raced. Sandor fell to his hands and knees as his legs gave out. It _hurt_. It hurt everywhere. His teeth, his scalp, toes and fingers. It was all one continuous wave of torture.

 

She hadn’t lied. He was sobbing, blubbering into the dirt that became a sticky mud as drool and mucus mixed together. His fists hammered at the ground. He howled and cried as his skin become a sheet of fire. Every nerve was wrapped in agony. Every muscle shook with endurance. There was a soft hiss and, through his panic and tears, Sandor saw his clothing turn to ashes that floated away.

 

He thought it might have been over. The fire was fading. Slowly smoldering instead of blazing.

 

Then a spasm ran down his spine and he cried out once again. The force spun him, naked and smeared with dirt, onto his back. There were popping and cracking sounds. Every joint realigned itself; any knot in his flesh or fracture to bone instantly mended. He arched off the ground, biting down on his tongue and trying to bring air back into his lungs. The bone in his leg snapped – broken again- and he screamed, near the point of passing out as it reset.

 

Relief washed over him, a sudden rush of pleasure replacing any trace of pain. Sandor gasped, each breath spreading throughout him to cool the fire within. He blinked up at the starless sky. Eternity could have passed him by. There was no such thing as time as he sucked in another lungful of air. He could hear the whoosh of blood in his veins, the true sound of his heart beating, squelching and startling. The sky wasn’t starless, he realized. He just hadn’t been looking _far_ enough. But now he saw. Stars and suns and moons. Round orbs of color with rings. They were millions of leagues from him, he knew, but he saw them all the same.

 

He let out his breath, the suns and moons flew away from his line of sight, and he heard a voice above him.

 

“ _Stand,”_ the Lady told him. He could hear inside her as well. She had spoken the truth. There was no heart within her. Only dust and stone. The only heart beating was his.

 

He rolled over onto his stomach. It should have hurt. After what he’d just been through, his aging muscles should have ached and groaned in protest. But he felt. . .incredible. There was a span of ten years, no more, when a man’s body was nothing but vigor, glutted with raw power and bursting with potent energy.

 

But this was _more_. It was so much more. The untapped strength he now carried inside was as close to his young hardiness as wine was to water. He felt unconquerable. Indestructible. He rose on legs that were not stiff or sore. Muscles glided, sure and steady as a cat hunting its prey. He flexed an arm and his bicep bulged. There was more to him! The bulk he’d slowly lost over the years was back, though his skin looked the same.

 

His broken, lame leg, that had left him hobbling, had been healed. There was no constant throb from within and the limp was gone completely. Whatever sorcery he’d given in to, it had repaired and reshaped his entire physique. In a mad moment of hope he lifted a hand to his face. Scars and missing hair greeted his touch.

 

“All that and you couldn’t fix this?” he growled, angry at himself for his moment of weakness.

 

“ _A handsome face is not required for the task at hand,”_ the Lady said simply. _“Do you wish for one?”_

 

“You can do that?” he asked with suspicion. The flicker of hope was back and he forgot that he still stood naked before the Lady and Vengeance.

 

“ _If that is your wish, then certainly. I told you I would give you anything you desire.”_

 

“Then what are you waiting for? Yes, fix it.”

 

The Lady looked at him confused. _“That is not a part of our agreement. I gave you the means to conquer all, in exchange for finding the Stark children. Your body had injuries that would have hindered our progress. I_ _healed only that which would slow you._ _If you desire more, a new bargain must be struck.”_

 

“Fuck the bloody Maiden,” Sandor mumbled slapping a hand over his eyes.Why did even the Gods have rules to answer to? “I’ve already sworn to do as you say. I’m on my way to gather the wolf pups as soon as I’ve found some fucking clothing. What else is there?”

 

The Lady thought before answering. _“Place a Stark in Winterfell. It_ _belongs to them by_ _birth_ _right_ _. Fight for their home, return it to them, and I will remove all_ _evidence_ _of fire from your face.”_

 

“Any one in particular? Or all of them?” Sandor asked, wondering if the Lady had the ability to sense impudence.

 

“ _One is sufficient for now. Male or female, it does not matter. I will abide by our agreement,”_ The Lady replied, ignoring Sandor’s discourteous tone.

 

“Sansa?” he pressed. If he could give her Winterfell, become something close to the handsome Knight she wanted, perhaps she might. . .

 

The Lady’s face became a hard mask of fury. Deep in her tattered stock of memories her vessel -the smallest remnant of Catelyn’s soul- cried out in protective alarm. _He loves her. He loves her and he will do anything for her. He’ll convince her to love him. He’s a killer, blood from a lower house. He’s not worthy. Stop him! Stop him, stop him, stop him!_

 

The Lady sneered. _“You will not touch her. She is not yours to have. You are her sword. Her protector. You are beneath her and will remain so. Do not touch her unless it is to aide her. Do not speak to her of love. If you do, I will end you. Your heart will stop, you will die and you will never see her again. Do you understand?”_

 

“And what about her?” Sandor barked. “I can’t control her. Will you take her choices as well? If she’s the one that does the talking?”

 

“ _You think she would sink so low as to love a broken man such as yourself? You are loathsome, deformed, and you stink of violence. She will never look at you with anything but scorn and pity.”_

 

“Aye, that’s true. But still, if she’s the one, will I die? I’m no good to her dead.”

 

“ _You are stubborn! I will make you another bargain, my pet. If the Lady should ever look at you with love in her eyes, bestow you with a kiss or declare herself yours, I will let you have her. The curse on your heart will be lifted and no harm will befall you. Does that satisfy you?”_

 

“It’ll do.” His chest felt heavy as sadness enveloped his heart. He couldn’t speak to the little bird with anything hinting at affection? Not that he had any intention of doing so, but with enough wine in his belly, if she looked at him again like she had when he saved her from the mob, he was liable to bend the knee and beg her hand. He couldn’t apologize, try to explain himself or give her the kiss he meant to the night of the Blackwater? None of it?

 

“ _None of it,”_ the Lady said. _“You’re mine now. Not hers.”_

 

 

 

 


	9. All My Friends Are Heathens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical Inspiration - Twenty One Pilots - Heathens
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UprcpdwuwCg

Vengeance approached Sandor, a sphere of swirling smoke, the shade of bruised flesh, floating between its palms. There was no pain this time around, as Vengeance gifted Sandor once again. The smoke became a thin layer of fabric, sticking fast to the middle of Sandor’s chest. Together, Vengeance and Lady Stoneheart spread the thickening cloth made of twilight over every inch of him. His cock, moments ago, had been proud and long. It reveled in its newfound youth, just like all the rest of him, but now it shortened, trying to flee from the Lady’s boney touch. 

 

It was over quickly, and each of the beings stepped back to grin with their dead and cracking lips at him. The smoke had changed completely. Silken cloth, the likes of which he hadn’t been afforded even under the Lannister’s golden roof, hugged his body, learning the shape of him and molding itself perfectly to his form.  From there, a second layer began to knit itself over his torso into a doublet made of linen, padded with soft, coating wool. The color might as well have been black, it was that dark, the purple of schemes plotted at midnight. There were cords of leather sewn into the doublet, around the waist and at the shoulders. Sandor knew what that meant. 

 

“Not a Knight,” he grumbled, picking at one of the cords, while leather patches ran together to form boots that covered the stockings on his feet. Broad straps laced their way over the insteps and climbed higher up his calf, sliding securely into place between silver buckles. 

 

_ “Oh, but you are now, my pet,” _ the Lady answered. _ “A Knight like no other.” _

 

_ “You swore an oath,” _ Vengeance reminded him.  _ “You ssswore.” _

 

_ “A Knight to serve the Darkness,” _ the Lady said. _ “You are a champion now to the Others. See. They come to welcome you.” _

 

Through the gnarled forest, figures began to emerge. Sandor counted four. All were covered by cloaks or robes but they let their outer garments fall to the ground to reveal themselves. One was enormous, at least Gregor’s height and twice his size. It seemed a man from the waist up, but had cloven hooves and legs covered in fur. Embedded into its bald head were three sets of horns, one pair large, ridged and curved like a ram’s. The other two were shorter and pointed, forming a half-crown. Every taut muscle was visible -the being wore no clothing- and a cock to rival an auroch’s hung low between its legs. It was a red terror, with scarlet eyes that simmered like a forge hungry for steel. 

 

Sandor stared at the half-beast, wondering what was to come next. He no longer feared the Lady but he would have felt better with a sword in his hand. The red being grunted and bared its teeth. 

 

_ “Don’t pay him any mind,” _ a woman spoke. _ “That is Wrath. He’s always this way. He never says much. Only glares. Unless you give him reason to charge, and then watch your head. He took Fury’s clean off once. It took us ages to get it back on correctly.” _ She was the picture of womanly perfection. Round in the hips and neither too thin nor too heavy. The neckline of her emerald dress plunged down between her breasts and Sandor was reminded of Cersei. This woman was blonde as well, and taller than the Queen, with a mature air about her. She was a ruler, not of men, but something else. Something baser. 

 

_ “I am Hate,”  _ she said with a brilliant smile. She pressed herself fully against Sandor, wrapping her arms around his neck.  _ “And I’ve been in love with you for a very long time.”  _ Like the Lady and Vengeance, her lips never moved, but Sandor heard her clearly. 

 

“I don’t know you,” Sandor growled, backing out of her arms. 

 

_ “You do! I was there! After the fire,” _ she said, pouting at the distance he put between the two of them.  _ “Your brother called you a thief, a filthy little shit. He burned the knight after he burned you! I sang to you! I spoke to you! All those long nights after, when you couldn’t cry because the salt would only make the wounds sting. Your father abandoned you to me. I was there!”  _ She spun around, pointing at all the Others gathered. _ “I was the first, before any of them came to you!”  _

 

_ “We were there,” _ a man said in a petulant tone. He was emaciated and sickly looking. Skin, the color of spoiled milk, showed through the holes of his tattered clothing. His white hair was lank and grew in patches, with scales and weeping boils covering much of his scalp. There were sunken trenches of decaying blue beneath each of his yellowed eyes. A noose of scar tissue encircled his neck.  A woman cowered behind him, hissing as a caged animal would at Sandor. She seemed just as close to death as the man, with her clothing in similar condition, faded and barely able to cling to her wasted body. Sandor could smell the musk of pressed flowers between the pages of books and herbs left forgotten on dusty shelves. 

 

_ “You always leave us out!” _ the cadaverous woman rasped and coughed like slate splitting.  _ “We were there too, but it took him longer to hear us and you know it! Stop spreading lies.”  _

 

Hate rolled her eyes. _ “Fury and Rage,”  _ she said, introducing the plague-stricken couple.  _ “They’re never satisfied and quick to temper. But you should know that already.” _

 

_ “Enough!” _ Vengeance snarled, _ “we are wasting time.” _

 

A small army of beings tore from the woods and many of the eyes that had been watching winked out of sight. Chubby, wide, and waddling at a fast pace, they scuttled and clacked like crabs running across rocks. They would have looked like children, if children had no eyes altogether and were pressed into a shape that allowed no room for shoulders, hips or knees. The beings were assorted in color, but dull and lacking any bright pigmentation. Shades of cream, puce and ivy, with gaping mouths full of knife-like teeth. Naked but without sex, pale, wrinkled and bloated. They were hideous but the Lady knelt to kiss each one on its broad forehead. 

 

_ “Bring his armor,” _ she told them and they chattered amongst themselves in clicks and chirps. They ran off once again, singing their own personal language, nodding their heads with enthusiasm. 

 

One stayed behind, first chirping at the Lady in lilting hoots, then stepping timidly towards Sandor. Snuffling over his boots, the creature yelped in sudden excitement, grabbing at Sandor’s leg with pus-yellow, stubby hands. 

 

Sandor swatted at the Nightmare trying to climb his leg. Each time he managed to pry it off of him and fling it away, it came rushing back at him. When his skin made contact with it, visions and unwanted memories came to him. Sandor felt unbearable heat, he heard a young boy screaming, and he saw his world go up in flames. 

 

_ “Fire!” _ the Lady chided.  _ “Easy, dear one.” _

 

Sandor stomped a boot in front of the creature, stopping it in its tracks. It lifted its head up, and its shoulders sagged when it saw Sandor’s other boot poised over it. 

 

_ “Don’t!” _ the Lady cautioned. _ “Leave it. It’s harmless and only wishes to play. You’ve known each other for a very long time. Destroy it and it will settle within you. It will be the only thing you dream of.”  _

 

Sandor let his foot drop beside the Nightmare. Fire chirped hopefully and stuck a finger out to touch one of Sandor’s buckles. 

 

“Get off,” Sandor said, kicking at Fire. It backed up a pace but kept its head cocked; an eager puppy accepting its scolding and waiting on its master to forgive it. Sandor growled, “we’re not friends.” Fire whistled low and mournfully, sitting down on its rump. If it had eyes, Sandor suspected it might have started to weep. 

 

_ “Smash it!” _ Hate laughed.  _ “Of all your Nightmares that is the one you loathe most! Remember the Blackwater? The smell of men roasting just like your sweet face when you were a boy! Everything died that day! Nothing was ever right after that. And that little beast has never let you forget. Even in sleep, it taunts you! Kill it! Do it!”  _

 

He turned on her, putting both his hands around her throat, surprised that she was solid and he could hold her. She twisted in his grasp, biting at his fingers until she broke skin and Sandor dropped her to the ground. 

 

_ “Don’t let her win!”  _ Rage screeched. _ “She’s the one that took your sister from you! She’s the one that drove you away from others! She was the wedge between you and your father. Think of all that was done to you. She did it! She does not love only you.”  _

 

Wrath rumbled deep within his chest, lumbering forward. He took each woman by the collar and flung them at the trees. Their bodies bounced and rolled along the ground, but they were both up again within moments, wiping at their dresses and shouting curses at Wrath. 

 

_ “Puny,” _ the red Devil said with disdain, his voice the deep groan of Hell’s gates opening. That one, Sandor found, he did not mind. 

 

Fire suddenly squealed and clapped its hands together, rushing to meet its returning  brothers and sisters that were clambering over one another. They moved like ocean waves, carrying pieces of metal over their heads, passing them from hand to hand. At first, Sandor did not recognize the shapes, until they came closer and he saw the Nightmares’ burden. A greave to his left, a gauntlet to his right, and the unmistakable curve of a breastplate; all were being brought to the front of the growing mob. 

 

_ “Thank you, sweetling,” _ the Lady said, nearly cooing at one of the Nightmares as she took a pair of spurs from its hands. She knelt in front of Sandor, bidding him to lift a foot and place it in her lap. 

 

“Not from Essos.” Sandor remarked, confused but not angered at the spurs she’d chosen over sabatons.  “They’re for horse fuckers and heathens.” 

 

The Lady looked up from her task, the twitch of a forgotten smile on her face. _ “My sword is certainly not the former, but you are the latter. You know this. We are all heathens here in the shadow of Darkness. Don’t fight what you are.” _ She pushed his foot out of her lap and reached for the other. _ “When men look at you, they will see their end. You will look the part. You know better than most what the eyes see, the mind fears.”  _

 

As the Lady rose from the ground, Vengeance was quick to take her place, a pair of greaves held in his elongated grasp. Fingers like spindles wove around Sandor’s calf, tightening and adjusting each clasp. Its touch was far more dismal and unnerving than the Lady’s. _ “Remember me,” _ it hissed. _ “Remember me when you see her again, the Stark girl, daughter of wolvesss. Remember what was done to her. I will be with you always. The blood you spill, _ I _ will drink and together we will grow stronger.”  _

 

Each of the Others dressed him, one piece at a time, several of them approaching him twice.  Wrath carried his breastplate to him with just one hand. They covered him in armor black as the Stranger’s heart. Nothing so dark should have shone so brightly, but it did, seeming to suck every trace of light into its depths, locking it away and making it a prisoner. It was the same as the dream he’d had, where he first met Lady Stoneheart. Spikes the size of a mason’s nails adorned the pauldrons and formed a line down the outer side of his gauntlets. They would provide a slow and bloody death for anyone Sandor shouldered through. 

 

The Others whispered or rumbled their promises, their hopes and their blessings. They gave him back memories he had long forgotten, purposely or not, causing him to tense and shake with the effort of keeping the savage howl within him from breaking free. The Hound, that had slumbered too long, was now well rested, starving for action, and choking on the leash that had been holding it back. Encased in steel, and filled with a sinful chorus of malevolence, Sandor Clegane stood before a crowd of evil incarnate and watched each being -God, Devil, and minion alike- kneel before him.  

 

The Lady said she was his keeper, that Vengeance was his Lord and master, but even they bowed low. Men he had led, bullied and shamed into battle; never before had something as powerful as the Gods lowered their eyes, awaiting his command. The Hound within would bark and bay for days to come in triumph.  _ He _ was the almighty.  _ He _ was righteous in his quest to avenge. 

 

The forest pulsed with a deep and thunderous beat. It echoed off the edges of the far off moons and stars. Sandor thought it was his own heart, basking in the sight of his field of worship, until the horizon began to glow. It wasn’t his pride pounding in his ears. It was footsteps. Steady and heavy, each thump drew the impending sunlight closer. But it wasn’t the sun come to greet him, either. Sandor’s breath stopped, as a giant lumbered its way towards the mass of Nightmares. The ghouls shrieked and fled, trampling any doomed and fallen brethren in their haste to hide in their forest.

 

_ “Nobel spawn! Bastard!” _ Hate screamed, as she too scrambled up and away.  _ “Honor” _ she spat, her voice like that of a spoiled child,  _ “you have no place here!” _

 

The giant continued his advance, and seemed to grow smaller with each step. Sandor was certain of it, watching the glowing man shrink in size, until they both stood at the same height. The man, Honor, Hate had called him, was dressed in armor as well, though his was golden, with flickering swirls of summer come to life dancing across its surface. His entire being radiated light, and long strands of lemon-yellow hair flowed down the nape of his neck, brushing against the wings that sprouted from his back. He looked at Sandor with eyes white and pure as freshly fallen snow, and Sandor saw sadness in them. 

 

_ “I’M TOO LATE. BOTH OF US TOO LATE, MY BROTHER,” _ the man said, with a shake of his head.  Sandor could  _ feel _ the man’s voice, and if he held any doubts that there were Gods amongst men, they crumbled at the sound. 

 

_ “He’s not yours! You were not invited! You don’t belong here,” _ the Lady shouted. 

 

_ “I BELONG WHERE I AM NEEDED. IF NOT FOR ME, YOU WOULD NOT HAVE HIM AT ALL. HE IS YOURS, FOR NOW. BUT I TOO, WILL CLOTHE HIM. I WILL NOT BE FORGOTTEN.” _

 

_ “He drank of my blood,” _ Vengeance hissed. 

 

_ “SO HE DID, AND HE WILL SERVE HIS CHOSEN MASTER. HE HAS NOT YET EARNED HIS WAY BACK OUT.”  _

 

_ “And he won’t!” _ the Lady said, fuming with anger.  _ “Give him your blessing then. It will make no difference. He is ours. Six of us and one of you. The odds are against you.”  _

 

Sandor scoffed at the golden man before him. “Honor?”

 

_ “AYE, THAT IS WHAT MEN CALL ME.” _

 

“You’ve got the wrong man.”

 

_ “I DO NOT. I REMEMBER REGRET AND SORROW. I KNOW OF GENTLENESS AND MERCY.” _ As Honor spoke he pulled a helm from behind him. It was black as well, and shaped into the snarling visage of a Hound. But it was not like the demon canine he’d seen in his dreams. This one was much like the one he’d had under the Lannisters service, fearsome yet functional, with no glowing eyes. 

 

_ “STAND STILL,” _ Honor bid him, as he crowned Sandor with his last piece of armor, _ “DO NOT FORGET YOURSELF. SANDOR CLEGANE IS A MAN, NOT A MONSTER. YOU ANSWER TO NO ONE BUT YOURSELF. THEY WOULD HAVE YOU FORGET THAT YOU HAVE A CHOICE. DO NOT FORGET WHAT YOU ARE. YOU THINK DARKNESS IS THE ONLY WAY. THERE IS ANOTHER. THERE IS A WAY OUT.” _

 

“And what’s that?”

 

_ “YOU MUST FIND THE PATH ON YOUR OWN. IF YOU WANT IT, IF YOU ARE WORTHY, IT WILL SHOW ITSELF TO YOU.” _ Honor held his arm out, grasped at Sandor’s and shook it. There was something in the act, a meaningful look that contained a secret Honor tried to will him to understand.  _ Not here though _ , Sandor thought,  _ he wants the Lady gone before he speaks. _ Then the moment was over, and Honor stepped backwards, growing again in height and retreating, leaving shimmering footprints behind. 

 

Honor made seven. Seven Others total dressed him and gave him their blessings. Seven Gods became his squires and the irony was not lost on Sandor. He wondered if they had oil to pour over his head as well. 

 

_ “You know what happens to men with honor.” _ The Lady stood near and whispered into his ear.  _ “They are not the ones who rule. Wear the helm, take his blessings of protection, and forget his lies. You need to go back. Time can only be suspended for so long here. It has not stopped in your world, only slowed, and dawn approaches. A new day begins.  Take Beric and his men with you, if it pleases you. March today, and only six more stand between you and the true North.” _

 

“I’ll need a sword.” 

 

_ “Of course. And, oh! I have one last gift for you, my pet,”  _ she said, turning her back to him and whistling into the never-ending night around them. 

 

Sandor could smell the horse before he saw it. The familiar scent of straw, sweat and apples that was Stranger washed over him as he hurried towards the edge of the forest. Stranger was there to greet him, happy puffs of air clouding the space between the two of them. Sandor smiled beneath his helm, scratching behind the horse’s ear. “How?” he breathed, at a loss for any other words. 

 

_ “I kept him safe. He’s been eating from the hands of Victory in the Garden of Nature. They have both been attentive.” _

 

Stranger had been treated well it seemed. His hair had been brushed, his teeth and hooves cleaned, and he was decorated in a new saddle, reins and bridle. And back along the horse’s flank and croup there was a small arsenal of weapons, each held in place with scabbards and holsters of leather. Two swords, one long and one bastard, a mace and a morning star, three knives and an ax were all strapped into place and easily accessible. Sandor recognized the five notches etched into the handle of the ax. One for each month he’d spent searching for answers when he should have been searching for _ her. _

 

A feeling of downtrodden guilt took hold of him. Guilt was the last thing Sandor had felt for the horse when they parted. The road had taken a toll on both master and beast, but now Stranger looked solid as a yearling. Sandor couldn't resist any longer, as he placed a boot within a stirrup and mounted his steed. Stranger pawed at the ground. The horse had never run from a fight and craved action just as his master did.  

 

The Lady held the back of her hand to Stranger’s nose, rubbing softly.  _  “How do you feel?” _ she asked. 

 

Behind him, Wrath and Hate still remained, watching in silence. Fury and Rage had disappeared. He felt a vibration as his ax struck the armor covering his thigh.  Sandor sat tall in his saddle, considering the armor that seemed impenetrable, the war horse under him, the assortment of weapons at his side, and more power than a dozen hardened soldiers coursing through him. He drew his ax from its holster and urged Stranger to rear with a click of his tongue. The horse came crashing down, inches from the Lady’s toes and Sandor gave his answer. 

 

“Unstoppable.”


	10. She Did And She Did Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you need a reminder there's this - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HBue47iGonM - Arya's list becomes much shorter in season 6 and she admits to no longer wanting the Hound dead. 
> 
> Musical inspiration - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cmneIEkQUeY - Blood of Angels by Brown Bird

Most of the Brotherhood marched while the horses kept at a walk, bearing the men that could afford them. At the front of the line, Sandor joined the leaders of the somehow stable rabble of farmers turned warriors. Two in command, became three. Beric kept his good eye ahead, on the path before them, but purposely rode with Sandor on that side as well. Watching and waiting, unsure as to whether or not Sandor’s new vestments and skills would prove to be profitable in the name of justice, or lead them all to the Stranger. 

 

Thoros was the complete opposite. The Red Priest complained loudly and often, casting untrusting looks Sandor’s way, as he drank his way through a skin of rum that permeated the air with the smell of cloves and burnt sugar. Suspicion started the moment Sandor and Stranger emerged from the woods and back to the land of the living. 

 

_ The camp was just stirring from sleep, some up and readying fires for pots of corn or oat mash. Others were staggering to their feet, kicking at the bedrolls and boots scattered about. Nearly all of them froze when they saw him; a daunting figure with unknown intentions towards them, until he removed his helm. A few sighed in relief but still they did not move. Thoros was the exception. His eyes were wide and frightened as he clutched the garish red jewel chained around his neck and ran to Stranger’s side.  _

 

_ “Clegane,” he shouted, pushing at Stranger to stop their progress forward. There was a desperate, pleading catch in his voice. “What have you done?”  _

 

Sandor could sense the Lady’s presence now and, if Thoros’ nervous twitch in the saddle was any indication, so could he. She was walking in the woods, ahead and to the right. Her footsteps made no sound but the grass beneath her feet instantly became rot and mold. The dank smell of decay was her tell, as was the tingling charge to the air she caused. It was the moment before lightning struck, when the unnamed elements Sandor could now see, if he wished, came together, clashed and broke apart. 

 

Water, air, earth and fire. Sandor had names for only four, but now knew there were more. So many more, and he had no words for them. The scholars had no idea what the land and sky was made of! It was pressure and heat and forces that pulled at Sandor’s insides. The Lady was part of that unseen world and, like a bottle of hastily made hard cider, corked and set too long in a cellar, she could shatter that which tried to contain her and burst forth from her prison. Thoros was all that kept her from doing so. 

 

_ “Not your concern, Priest,” Sandor growled back. “Take your fucking hands off the horse-” _

 

_ “Was there a woman?” Thoros interrupted, keeping his fingers tangled in Stranger’s mane. “Red hair? Blue eyes? Dead looking?”  _

 

_ Sandor sat back in surprise. How did the Priest know of such details? What was his connection to the Lady?  _

 

_ “Clegane!” Thoros shouted once again. “Was it her?”  _

 

_ Sandor swallowed, and nodded, an uneasy feeling making his stomach plummet. Had he been incorrect in his choice? Thoros and he had never seen eye-to-eye, but the wild look about the man left Sandor unsettled.  _

 

_ “What did she ask for? What was the price?” Thoros demanded.  _

 

_ “Winterfell. A Stark in Winterfell,” Sandor answered.  _

 

_ “That’s all?”  _

 

_ “And to find any other missing Starks. To keep them safe.”  _

 

_ “You’re certain? This is important! What were her words?” _

 

_ “She asked for a soldier to serve her. Said she wanted a Knight and she gave the means to take back Winterfell. It was a fair bargain.” _

 

_ Thoros shook his head. “You’ve become the damned,” he said hollowly.  _

 

_ It took an hour more, and Beric acting as interpreter between Sandor and the distraught Thoros, before what had happened became clear.  _

 

_ “We found them on the riverbank,” Thoros wept. “The Lady Stark was just a few hands away from what was left of her son, and there were at least a dozen more dead around them. We thought a Queen in the North would fight for her people. We only wanted to do good. I never meant to bring her back this way! She was supposed to be like Beric! It’s not Catelyn Stark in there. It’s her body, aye, but there is a creature of hate inside her. It shows no mercy, it feeds on vengeance and I brought her here!”   _

 

_ Sandor turned from the sobbing man, uncomfortable at seeing one of his rivals so undone.  _

 

_ Beric was the next to speak.  “It was a mistake on all our parts,” he said solemnly, “but we can thank the Lord of Light that we were given the means to control most of her actions. It seems though, she’s been scheming behind our back.” He took a moment to look over Sandor’s seated  form and Stranger grazing behind him. “I don’t know her full intentions, Clegane, but I doubt, as Thoros does, her wants are honest and true. Tread carefully and use what was given with purpose. Remember what I told you. You can still do more good than harm. You could use what she’s given to help us.”  _

 

_ “Catelyn Stark,” Sandor said to no one in particular, taking a deep breath. He should have seen it! The washed out, ruddy tone to her hair and the blue that had nearly faded away to gray within her eyes; he mistook it all for damage done by the grave and not the look of the Tullys. Her high cheek bones, the height, and the proud, straight line of her spine. These traits remained and he had failed to see what once had been. Sandor had seen that woman before, at the late Lord Stark’s side. He remembered a dutiful wife and a ferociously protective mother, but that woman was long gone, replaced by a spirit that hungered for the blood of her enemies to replace that which had been taken from her.  _

 

There was a link between the three of them, Sandor understood, and he was both the lowest and highest rung of the ladder. In might and brute strength he was the winner, -his unnatural transformation gave him the qualities of both men and Gods- but he answered to the Lady, and the Lady was bound to the Priest, and so the line of power trickled downward, leaving Sandor a man of service, as he had always been. 

 

Stranger whickered and nipped at a mare that came too close for the horse’s comfort, pulling Sandor from his thoughts. The scent of cool, wild woods and stinging copper filled his nose, before Vara spoke. 

 

_ At least there isn’t a bastard to worry with. _

 

“Just like his master, I see,”  she said. Her anger had cooled over the course of several days. When Lem’s horse became available once more, she scurried up into the saddle and put her knife to anyone’s throat that dared to try and unhorse her. Insisting she could fight as well as any man in the camp, Beric allowed her to join the Brotherhood, and thus far, she had proven herself worthy of a place in the line.

 

Sandor gave her no indication that he heard her. She sighed and wiggled in her seat, and the smell of warm metal became nauseating. “You were right to send Brax away. He’s not a fighter. He’s not like you and me. He’ll be a good hand to the miller’s wife, helping with Annabelle.” 

 

“M’not like you,” Sandor growled. Vara might have been willing to let the past go, but Sandor remembered her actions back at the community. 

 

“I never told him. Ray,” she said. Her tone was delicate and feminine, and Sandor knew it to be a farce. “I only wanted to raise your hackles is all. You  _ were _ an ass.”

 

“So you threaten to tell the world I’m a rapist? The fuck do you want, Vara?”

 

“I thought we might be friends again. It’s cold at night.”

 

Sandor glared from beneath his helm.  _ Fucking cunt. As if he’d bed her after all the shit she’d shoveled his way. _ “Get used to it,” he snarled. “It’s only going to get worse the further North we ride. You’ll have a hard enough time finding anyone to stick you now with the blood you’re leaking.” 

 

Vara gasped, ducking her head and Sandor laughed. He’d never seen her mortified and humbled. It was satisfying to see her blush, grasping for words, as her face turned red as the rags she probably had stuffed between her legs. 

 

“What do you know of it?” she whispered harshly. 

 

“I know,” he chuckled, glad to have finally taken the prideful luster out of her eyes. 

 

“You’re horrible! I’ve never-”

 

Sandor raised an armored fist to silence her. “Shut it,” he told her.

 

“I will not!” she shrieked, gaining Beric’s attention.

 

“Shut the fuck up!” Sandor shouted. 

 

“Clegane?” Beric asked, slowing his horse to match its stride with Stranger’s, “Problem?” 

 

“Tell the harpy to get back in line,” Sandor ordered, keeping his voice low. “She doesn’t fucking listen to me. There’s someone out there.” 

 

“The Lady?” Beric questioned, before snapping at Vara. “Back down. If there’s someone there we’ll need you at the rear.” 

 

Vara’s face twisted into a scowl but she did as she was told. Her horse flicked its tail at the men as it turned and made for the soldiers walking behind. 

 

“Not her,” Sandor said, closing his eyes. The sound of a horse’s hooves was nothing more than a gently thudding beat. Someone was being careful, trailing them but keeping their horse on a narrow deerpath that muffled their advance. He could hear the breath of one person and a steady heartbeat, though it was faster than his own. It was more in time with Brax’s but not the hummingbird pace of Annabelle’s. 

 

“One horse,” Sandor said, eyes still closed. “One rider. Young. And” -he sniffed the air- “female.” He wasn’t certain about the last detail. The scent was hazy, a neutral waft of leather and unwashed hair, caught between the years of childhood and adulthood. If it was a girl, she hadn’t flowered yet or been bedded. There was something familiar about it, the soft scent, like an animal's pelt. 

 

Then it stuck him hard and fast.

 

_ Wolf! _

He smelled wolf on the girl! It was a girl, he was sure of it now. But could it be? The little she-wolf? He wanted her alive, yet always assumed she had died, going off on her own. 

 

“Wait here,” Sandor rasped. “She’s not a threat. She’s moving on, but slowly. I’ll ride ahead. Make sure she keeps going.” 

 

Beric gave him a nod. “I trust you can handle one girl. Let her go if she’s a daughter of the land. If she bears Lannister or Bolton colors, bring her back.” 

 

“Aye,” Sandor agreed. The way the girl rode - she knew she’d been discovered - but she continued on with purpose, at a slow walk. She was allowing herself to be trailed. Her horse didn’t bolt or run and Sandor followed the light clop of its hooves until they were well out of Beric’s line of sight or hearing. Then the girl and horse stopped, hidden and waiting.

 

Sandor came to halt as well, listening to the girl’s heartbeat flow in a smooth rhythm. 

 

_ Water dancing. _

 

He smirked and shouted into the trees. “I know you’re out there!”

 

“Take off your helm,” came the reply from the woods. “Let me see your face.”

 

He did so, shaking his head to clear the hair from his cheek. Scars uncovered, he shouted, “That what you wanted, wolf?”

 

The last of the shriveled, brown leaves of autumn shook, and a horse the same shade emerged. On its back, was Arya Stark. She rode without a saddle; only a dark green blanket between her and the horse. Lightly tanned armor of thin leather and matching boots were visible beneath an olive cloak. She urged her horse closer, looking over his features, her brow furrowed in disbelief. 

 

“You’re not dead,” she stated, and Sandor found it hard to discern if she were impressed or disappointed. 

 

“Neither are you,” he said, letting a rare warmth quell his usual rasp. 

 

“I had a better chance at living than you did.”

 

He barked out a laugh. “That’s what  _ you _ think.”

 

“I’m here aren’t I? And I didn’t need you, or the Tarth Knight, or anyone else! Why aren’t you dead?” 

 

He shrugged his shoulders, unsure of the answer himself. “Not finished yet.”

 

“Finished with what?” 

 

“The fuck if I know. Where you going?”

 

“South. You?”

 

“North.” 

 

“North?” 

 

“Aye, North.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Your sister’s there. That bastard half-brother of yours too.”

 

“In Winterfell? Sansa’s in Winterfell?!”

 

“Not yet. Bolton’s got his flags flying there. Not for long though. Not after I get there.” 

 

“Jon’s with Sansa? He’s back?” 

 

“That’s what I said. What’s South?”

 

“Cersei.” She paused. “And your brother.”

 

“Still got your little list? Cross any names off it? You’ll have to put mine back on.”

 

“I killed Walder Frey two nights ago.”

 

“With that twig of a sword?”

 

“No, I fed him a pie made out of his dead sons and then slit his throat with a table knife.” She seemed almost proud of her accomplishment. Her voice was calm and steady.  “I did use Needle on the sons. They deserved it. You were there. You know what they did to Robb and my mother.”

 

“You’re serious.”

 

“A girl does not laugh about such things.” 

 

She spoke like one of the faceless men. Could she really have traveled so far on her own? 

 

“Where’d you run off to, wolf?” Sandor asked.

 

“Across the sea and back.” 

 

“That it?”

 

“Where’d you get that armor?” Arya asked, deliberately answering his question with one of her. 

 

“Went somewhere and came back. Same as you.” Sandor wasn’t the only one capable of giving half-answers. 

 

There was silence between them, each needing a moment to take stock of the other. She looked older to Sandor, far older than she should have. On her face, and in her eyes, trials and blood and tragedy slept, and Sandor was reminded of why he’d kept on protecting her long after he realized there was no one to ransom her to. 

 

Regret flashed across her face. There one moment and gone the next before she spoke. “You weren’t on my list. Not when I left you. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t help you either.”

 

“Hmph.” Sandor frowned, forgetting she was only a child the last time they had seen one another. She didn’t carry herself like one any longer. There was a true Stark in the making in front of him. 

 

Arya looked to her horse blanket and if his sense of hearing hadn’t been enhanced, Sandor would have never heard her next words. “I’m glad you’re not dead.” 

 

He grunted his response, waiting until she looked up from the reins in her hands, before replacing his helm, and it seemed enough for her. They both had lost enough in life and wanted no part in having one more thing that could be taken from them; acknowledging their strange friendship any further was as sure a way as any to doom its fragile existence.

 

Arya cleared her throat. “There’s bandits ahead.” 

 

“I know that,” he said. “Been smelling their shit for an hour.” 

 

“There’s only a dozen, but they’ve rigged the brush to sound like more. They’ll try to take your supplies.”

 

“Let them try” he scoffed, nudging at Stranger’s side with his boot, careful not to use his spurs.

 

“You’re going alone?” Arya shouted after him. 

 

“Not afraid of a bunch of thieves,” Sandor called over his shoulder as Stranger advanced forward, farther away from Beric, and ever closer to the stinking mob of bandits ahead. He tilted his head to the side and then back, as far as he was able inside the helm, cracking several joints. This was going to be  _ easy. _

 

“I’m coming too!” he heard Arya yelp. Her horse was suddenly neck-and-neck with Stranger and her left hand was over the pommel of her sword. 

 

“Stay back.”

 

“Will you make me?”

 

“No, but I’m not done watching over you. Supposed to keep you safe.”

 

“On what orders? What for?”

 

“Starks in Winterfell. That’s all I was told. You still a Stark?”

 

“I am.”

 

“Then stay out of the way and try not to get stabbed.” 

 

“Try yourself! You’re the one that ended up at the bottom of a hill last time,” she snapped.

 

“Ungrateful shit. Remind me again, why I bothered with you in-”

 

“Aww, now isn’t that heartwarming,” a rough voice said. “A father and daughter moment, eh?” 

 

A man, pock-faced and with a hunched back, limped from the woods, carrying a sword that looked remarkably well made in his hands. No rust or visible wear was to be seen, which was more than could be said for the man. Stolen, no doubt, Sandor thought. 

 

“He’s  _ not _ my father,” Arya hissed. 

 

“No?” the man said with surprise. He pointed at Sandor.  “Well, then, he won’t mind sharing will he?” 

 

“I mind,” Sandor said, the rasp in his voice echoing within the helm. 

 

“This again?” Arya groused, hopping down from her horse. The man laughed at her, and it was the last sound he uttered. Needle was out, sharp and quick as ever, sinking between the man’s ribs at heart level before he had time to realize the small girl in front of him was a true threat. 

 

He gurgled and clawed at his chest. When he sank to his knees, Arya drew Needle across his throat, bleeding him out like a butchered hog. She stepped back from the initial spray of blood and kept her boots out of the resulting dark puddle forming around the man’s corpse. It was clean, efficient and Sandor knew she had learned far more than he had taught her.  

 

“That was a fucking mistake,” came another voice. The trees rustled and more men came out of the woods from both the left and right. An even split, five and five, Sandor counted. They moved closer, forming a half circle around himself and Arya. Every one of them looked ragged, dressed in crumbling leather, some with dented half helms and others with only pikes to protect themselves with. 

 

“Only mistake is you coming any closer,” Sandor warned, swinging a leg over Stranger to dismount. 

 

“Stupid of you to leave that group of yours. We’ll be taking the armor, and any gold you’ve got. The girl too.”

 

“The whore’s pox got between your ears? Did you see what she did? And you want to have a go at her?”

 

“Ten of us. Two of you. Even with your fancy armor, you’ll still bleed when we stick you.” 

 

“Say it again,” Sandor said, swinging his ax in broad sweeps in front of him. “Go on. Say you’ll kill me.” 

 

“You’re a fucking dead man.” 

 

Blood rushed in Sandor’s ears, and the Lady whispered to him. 

 

_ “Slay them all.”  _

 

There was pleasure, sweeter than any wine and more explosive than being balls deep in a willing cunt. The bandits moved like amber sap dripping from the broken limb of a tree, and Sandor cut them down, one by one. They did little more than raise their weapons, and he was on them, slicing and hacking until nothing remained but gutted, headless bodies. 

 

Sandor watched their fingers twitch. Intestines littered the dust, clenching; pink and white ropes of dying flesh, trying desperately to convince themselves that their host was still living. Light flashed across his forearm, the black of his armor becoming a mirror, and for a moment the reflection of Vengeance smiled back at him. 

 

Arya stood with her mouth hanging wide open, her eyes glassy with fear, like a rabbit kitten, stuck in the grass with terror, having watched a hound tear through her entire warren and sit licking the bones after. Her sword was drawn, yet clean. The point of it shook. 

 

In the time it had taken him to fell the entire group of men she’d only made it to his side.  

 

“You shouldn’t be able to do that!” she stammered. “Not like that! I learned to move swiftly but you were the wind. I couldn’t see you! Only your blade and a shadow! How did you do that?” 

 

Sandor reached down to pry his ax out of the last man’s ribcage, the suction creating a wet and slurping crunch. Then he looked to the sky, breathing heavily, feeling the sunlight filter through the holes in his helm to warm his skin.  _ Gods, he felt alive! _

 

“Ask your bloody mother.” 

  
  
  



	11. Forever In Debt To Your Priceless Advice

It wasn’t a great difficulty to convince Arya to join their party. Thoughts of revenge still hung over her like thunderous clouds, but the promise of seeing her siblings again - of knowing that they were so close- was more temptation than she could resist.

 

“I need to see them. Then I’ll go,” she stated with cold emphasis.

 

At night she recited her list, and by day rode closer to Sansa and Jon. Sandor didn’t comment on the fact that he’d been removed from her list and neither did she, though she slept near enough to him at the day’s end, that any man could have overheard her. 

 

An alliance was formed. They would fight as brothers until Winterfell was secure. The stronghold of the North was a lure to everyone. Sandor for his promised face, Beric for more men to continue north, and for Arya, a place to call home once again. If there were any reason beyond that -and Sandor knew there was on his part at least- none of them shared the information with any of the others. At night, he dreamt of Sansa, kissing his unburnt cheek, and always woke to the cruel laughter of the Lady. 

 

Once the Stark’s camp had been sighted, it was almost too easy in Sandor’s mind to gain access. But with Arya in tow, the leaders and she were quickly ushered through crowds of soldiers, smiths, cooks and whores, to Jon’s tent.

 

There were five, Sandor counted, as he entered -Jon, three men he didn’t know, and Sansa was there, but he had no time to react. Arya flew to her half-brother, jumping up into his waiting arms. He swung her in a circle, holding her tightly as their cloaks swirled around them, before releasing her to allow Sansa her turn. 

 

Sansa cradled her sister’s face between her hands and Sandor saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes. He’d seen her cry before, but never with joy, and something inside him tensed, the unfamiliar sight of familial affection making him twitch uncomfortably on the spot. His father had certainly never treated any of his children with such warmth and his mother had died long before he could remember if she’d ever cared for him in the same way. And after that . . .  there was no one. 

 

“Your hair is shorter,” Sansa said, winding a lock of Arya’s brown hair around her finger. It wasn’t the shaggy, uneven tangle that it had been when she was traveling with Sandor, but it wasn’t yet long enough to hang past her shoulders. 

 

Sandor thought he’d never see such a thing. It was a tender moment he wouldn't have thought Arya capable of enduring. Pulling her sister closer, Sansa kissed her forehead first and then drew her against her chest. A mounting sense of jealousy took hold of Sandor as he watched Arya close her eyes, safe for a moment in the loving security of her sister’s arms. No woman had given him such comfort in his lifetime.  

 

Arya stood still, then slowly lifted her arms to return Sansa’s embrace. Kissing her sister’s hair, Sansa looked over the top of Arya’s head and straight at him. 

 

_ The Gods fucking take him, why was there no one else in the all the world with eyes as expressive as hers?  _

 

“Thank you,” she mouthed. Three men before her and it was him that she singled out. And suddenly the air around him became an oven. It was stuffy and felt thick enough to choke him, and he wanted as far from her and the tent as possible. 

 

“She came on her own accord,” he answered. “She can take care of herself.” 

 

“Of course she can,” Sansa said with a smile. “But I thank you all the same.” 

 

Jon moved to put an arm around each of his sisters and Sandor heard him whisper. “We’ll get Rickon back. I promise. We’ll find Bran.” 

 

Arya squirmed and pulled back from the circle Jon had created. “Where are they?” 

 

“Rickon is in Winterfell. Held hostage by Ramsay. I don’t know about Bran, but Theon says he’s alive. Hodor is with him. Once we take back Winterfell we’ll search for him. Or, perhaps, he’ll come home on his own. If he knows it’s safe to do so.” 

 

The rest of the conversations seemed to pass Sandor by as if he were dreaming, asleep in the saddle. His focus was on the red-haired woman he had once known as a blossoming girl. She was young when she flowered, and though custom dictated she was fit to be bedded at that time, she had never quite looked the part to him. But he had seen the potential in her then and she had exceeded his expectations now. 

 

She’d grown taller, and put on weight where she ought to. Her stance was proud, her voice stern, yet gentle. The black cloak lined with silver fur she wore matched her half-brother’s and Sandor admired the wolf’s head stitched onto her dress. There was no fear in her eyes, or meek hesitation in her movements. The girl was gone. 

 

It was hard to discern her heartbeat from all the others. Beyond the tent there were hundreds of them, all pounding and racing and marching towards their final beat. There was one nearby that set his teeth on edge; a grating thrum of activity that couldn’t have been man or woman. 

 

Rats, he thought with disgust. He fucking hated rats and there was no way to keep the filthy rodents out of such an enormous camp, full of warm fires and grain. 

 

Beric and Thoros pled their case for moving north. Talk of white walkers and ghosts come back to life and things that Sandor would have laughed at a fortnight ago. Jon accepted it all, recounting his days on The Wall and confessing his own resurrection to Beric. Sansa looked less sure, darting glances Sandor’s way as Thoros explained Lady Stoneheart’s role in securing a sword to serve the Starks.  When Arya quietly explained the Lady had once been Catelyn Stark, Sansa, with a slight quiver on her lips, excused herself from the tent and Arya followed. 

 

Jon watched his sisters leave, his face showing sadness as well. Then he set his features and squared his shoulders. “Fight for the north. Fight for the name Stark and when we have Winterfell, we will march together until we have claimed all the land once again.” 

 

******************************************

 

Supplies and space were limited. As leaders, Sandor, Beric and Thoros were offered a tent to share. Each had a wall of the tent as their own, with enough room for a cot and nothing more. It was cramped, but thankfully there were no holes to let the biting winter winds inside, and it offered them a chance at sleeping up off the icy ground. 

 

Beric and Thoros went for food, leaving Sandor the time and solitude to shed his heavy armor. He stretched to the sky and groaned at the weightless feeling in his arms, as footsteps came closer. The camp was a riot of smells and sounds but he knew it was Sansa approaching his tent. She shared the same earthy scent of her sister wolf, mixed with her own unique blend of citrus and rose that had clung to her since she was a girl. It was more potent now, rich with a note of enticing femininity she’d been missing before. 

 

“Clegane,” she called, stopping outside the weathered flap of the tent. “Are you there?” 

 

When he didn’t answer, she let herself in, starting when she saw that he was inside. Then she laughed, a nervous sound, while she looked around the tent. In her arms was a cloak, silver and black, just like her own and Jon’s. 

 

“I know it isn’t much, but is it to your liking?” she asked.

 

“Better than stars and horse blankets.” 

 

The frantic, rapid vibration from earlier was back, as soon as she entered his tent. The source was invisible and misleading, until he understood _exactly_ where it was coming from. Both sadness and rage became a torrid storm within him as he realized just how much he had failed her. 

 

“Are those your only clothes? Do you have a cloak?” she asked, oblivious to his plight.  “I didn’t see any belongings on your horse.” 

 

“Haven’t had time to go dress shopping,” he snapped, trying to make sense of his triggered emotions and her lack of any at all.  

 

Was there something he should do? Say to her?  

 

“Why do you make everything difficult?” she sighed. There was a new, tired yet authoritative edge to her voice. Taking a step closer, she shoved the cloak into his hands.  “Here. This one should do. You’ll need it. I don’t have the white one any longer.” He was genuinely puzzled and it must have shown on his face as she continued, “your Kingsguard cloak? You gave it to me. In the throne room when-”

 

“I know what happened,” he said, irritated by the fact that she would assume he’d forgotten. “You didn’t get rid of it? Thought you would have burnt it. I would have. ” 

 

“I-well, at first, I thought you’d ask for it back. And then, after the Blackwater, it was a comfort to me. There was no one left you see, that cared. Tyrion was kind, in his way, but it wasn’t the same. I kept it in a chest. At the bottom. It made me feel as if you were still there. But it’s gone now along with everything else. I had to leave everything behind when I left King’s Landing.” She reached into the silk purse tied to her belt, pulling out a worn and stained bit of cloth. “I have this though. I always had it tucked in my pocket.”

 

“You kept it,” he said, remembering a time when he’d foolishly given in to his impulses and tried to act the gentleman. 

 

“You said I’d need it again. You were right.” 

 

“Why?”

 

“The same reason I kept the cloak. Why did you come here?” she challenged.

 

“Following orders.” 

 

She picked at the handkerchief, seemingly displeased with his answer. “And what will you gain for your trouble?” 

 

“Might not look it, but Thoros’ spirit gave me twenty years back. Fair trade to feel like this again.” 

 

“Is it so different?”

 

“Give it ten years or so. You’ll understand. Once that babe in your belly swells, you’ll ache.” 

 

Her entire face fell, a look of horror creeping into her eyes. The healthy pink glow in her cheeks slowly drained away. “What did you say?” she asked, trembling. 

 

_ Bugger him and his fucking mouth!  _ It should have  _ never  _ been him to tell her. “You don’t know,” he confirmed, her eyes desperately searching his for an answer. “How do _ you  _ not know?”

 

“I only thought my moonblood was late! It has been before. I- Oh Gods, are you certain?” 

 

“You smell different now. Not a maester, but there’s three heartbeats in here and I only count the two of us.”  

 

Sinking down onto his cot, she dropped his handkerchief. It fluttered to the dirt floor as she sobbed into her hands, “I didn’t want - not by him! I thought I was free. I can’t!” Sandor stood helplessly over her. Even if it were possible to touch or comfort her, he didn’t know how. She was near hysterical. “I should have gone with you. I should have left. You were the safe one!” 

 

_ I could've bloody well told you that! I did tell you! And you had your nose so far up in the air you never listened!  _

 

_ Stupid girl! Learned the hard way did you? Worse things than an ugly face in this world. I swore not to hurt you and you told me to bugger off! You got what was coming to you!  _

 

_ Wouldn’t be sitting there crying with a madman’s babe in your belly, if you’d put courage there instead! _

 

It was all on the tip of his tongue, ready to chastise and belittle her but he bit down hard, seeing a vision of Ray in his mind, disappointment clearly written on his face. In his mind’s eye, Emma stood near the Septon, shaking her head. 

 

_ She told me to go after her. _

 

He had treated Emma with honor. Where was his honor now? He felt ill at what he’d nearly done, watching Sansa continue to weep mournfully. His thoughts were cruel and unnecessary. She was punishing herself on her own and didn’t need his scathing temper or harsh words to feel anguish. He was watching it unfold right in front of him. 

 

Change the course, he told himself. There was a better way, if he could manage it. 

 

“Little bi-” he started and gasped at the searing dagger of pain that shot through his heart. 

 

_ Fuck! _ He was being denied even that small token of affection?  _ Bloody fucking curse! _

 

Sansa didn’t notice his grimace of pain, or the stumble in his step. She was still lost in her grief, tears leaking from between her fingers as she wept. 

 

Holding a hand above her, he hissed when it felt like he’d stuck it straight into a fire. Was there  _ nothing _ he could do to stop her sorrow?

 

He risked kneeling in front of her, and when that produced no pain, he plucked his worn handkerchief from the ground. “Here,” he rasped and she lowered her hands to stare at him with watery eyes. 

 

There was a breathless moment that stretched between the two of them before he tried to scrub at her face, but the same line of fire bolted down his arm. In his mind he spat out every curse he knew and swore he _ would  _ kill the Lady one day. He growled, placing the handkerchief in her lap, and continued to kneel before her. She wiped the tears from her face on her own, sniffling and trying to calm herself. Choked little sobs escaped her, and her nose was running, and Sandor wondered how it was that she could still look beautiful. 

 

The tiny spark of life within her kept humming away, leaving him no doubt that she was now a woman grown. A Lady with a little Lord in her belly, and he found himself aroused by the thought that she was able to bear children, which was quickly replaced by disgust at his desire. She was hurt and he was being lecherous. So he watched her cry and tried to ignore the child inside her. There was nothing else for him to do. There was nothing else he  _ could  _ do. 

 

When Sansa finally began to breathe easier, so did he, and he suddenly sensed they were no longer alone. Putting a finger to his lips, bidding her to remain quiet, he rose on silent feet and made his way to the entrance of the tent. His arm shot out, found its target and yanked. Vara tumbled through the entrance, pulled by her hair, which Sandor kept a tight hold of. 

 

_ Wildling bitch! _

 

He drew his knife, ready to be done with her once and for all; she’d been nothing but trouble and now she knew Sansa’s secret, and he’d be damned if he let her go to tell the entire camp. Vara struggled, but he was stronger, tipping her back to expose her neck. The edge of his knife pressed into her flesh.

 

“Sandor!” Sansa shouted, springing up from the cot. “Don’t! Please, don’t!” 

 

The combination of his name from Sansa’s lips, and words that Arya had once begged of him, were enough to make him pause, though his grip did not weaken. 

 

“Better this way,” he growled. 

 

“What has she done?” Sansa cried. 

 

“Nothing yet, but it’s what she’ll do that’s the problem,” Sandor explained. “She heard you. I know this one. She’ll run her mouth to get back at me.” 

 

“She’s frightened, look!” Sansa said. “Let her go! Let me speak with her first.” 

 

Sandor would have never done it for anyone else but her. Slowly, he lowered his knife and released his hold on Vara’s hair. Shoving the wildling towards Sansa, he backed up a pace, blocking the exit. 

 

Vara rubbed at her neck. “Thank you, m’lady. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, honest!” Sandor snorted at the lie and the courteous tone in her voice. “I only wanted to come and see him. We were friendly once,” she said with coy smile. “But I didn’t know he’d be entertaining a Lady such as yourself.”

 

“There was no entertaining,” Sansa replied stiffly.  “Did you listen to our conversation?” 

 

“Aye, m’lady,” Vara said, glancing at Sansa’s belly. “You didn’t seem pleased.” 

 

Sandor advanced, ready to start what had been interrupted, and Sansa held up her hand to halt him. She reached into her purse and drew out three silver coins. Vara eyed them up greedily. “It was unexpected news,” Sansa started, “and I would prefer to keep the information between the three of us until after the battle. Jon doesn’t need to know this now. Do you understand?” 

 

Vara nodded her head as Sansa placed the coins in her hand. “I can keep quiet, m’lady. This one here thinks the worst of me, but I’m not awful as he says. There’s another way though. If it still upsets you after the battle. You don’t have to bear the child.” 

 

Sandor shouldered his way between the two women. He was _ not  _ going to sit idly by while Vara peddled moon tea. “Don’t listen to her,” he warned. 

 

“What is it?” Sansa said, hope seeping into her voice. “What does she mean?”

 

“You don’t want that,” he said, trying to put all the honesty and sincerity he could find within himself into his words. “You  _ don’t _ . She can make you a brew that kills the babe but you’ll risk your chance at ever having children again. You don’t want that.”  

 

He wanted to shake her and shout at her.  _ I know you. This isn’t your way. _

 

“I thank you for your offer, but I don’t believe I will need such a thing,” Sansa said, addressing Vara. “I’d like to be on my own now.” 

 

“Of course,” Vara answered, giving a quick bob of a curtsy. “But if you change your mind, I can help. I’ve done it twice myself. It doesn’t hurt much.”

 

“Thank you,” Sansa repeated, as Vara left them.

 

“It’s a mistake, letting her go,” Sandor said. 

 

“She’s happy enough with silver. I trust her.” 

 

“You shouldn't.”

 

“I said I wanted to be alone!” she said angrily. 

 

“It’s my tent!” 

 

Her cheeks flamed with red, their previous pallor gone in an instant. “So it is,” she said, avoiding his eyes, and making for the tent’s flap. She paused and turned back to him. In the small space, they stood too close to one another. If he took one step, she’d be in his arms. She looked up into his eyes, worry and doubt and a question she wanted to ask written all over her features. Her mouth opened and no sound came, and he understood. 

 

“I won’t tell,” he rasped, watching relief flood her eyes. “No one will know until you want it.” 

 

“Thank you,” she whispered, turning to leave him.

 

_ She wanted to ask, but didn’t. She knew the answer. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her just as he’d promised. She knew!  _

 

“Sansa,” he called, testing her name on his tongue and finding he enjoyed the flavor. Her head came back through the tent’s flap, an eyebrow raised. He grabbed his longsword and its scabbard. After a moment’s thought, he reached for the cloak she’d given him as well. “Do you want to go to your Godswood?” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just . . . trust me.


	12. I'll Turn Into A Monster For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So this is one of the rough and bloody chapters I spoke of in the summary. That's all the detail you get. I'm not going to do specific trigger warnings as I don't want to spoil the story and plot. If you don't get this story is dark by now, you'd better get on board. If you truly need a warning or specifics message me on Tumblr. Same name. 
> 
> Musical inspiration - There are two this time. 
> 
> Mumford and Sons - Monster - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fmfit7BcGzE  
> This one will get you through to the first break. 
> 
> Then we have the following for the rest.  
> Twenty-One Pilots - Stressed Out - Piano and Cello cover by GnuS Cello  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FSd30WwpEVA
> 
> Good luck.

Back to the Old Gods. The ones Sansa scorned in her youth, convinced the New Gods -the ones that her prince worshipped- were all she needed. They had failed her. First, when they took her father’s life, despite her many heartfelt prayers, and then countless times after. Her father tried to warn her. Handsome faces and titles weren’t the things that made a good man. Honor, duty, loyalty. Sweat from his brow and blood from his veins. These were the qualities she should have searched for. 

 

And love. Love would have encompassed it all. True love between equals, and not the fleeting, naive feelings of a girl who dreamt of happy endings. 

 

_ If I had known then what was to come, I would have gone with him. He would have taken me home, and it all could have been different. _

 

Sansa knelt at the base of the tree her father once also sat beneath. When she was very young, still small enough to sit on his lap, he would take her here once or twice a year. The last person to bring her here was her father. Now the Hound stood guard while she wept and prayed. He had warned her once too. Fresh tears came to her eyes as she realized that, whatever his reasons, he had tried to protect her then. He was trying to do so again.

 

If it were another man, she would have thought he was after her flesh or her title. But the Hound had never touched her in a way to suggest he wanted to bed her. At least, not when he was sober. When he was in his cups though, things changed and the stormy look she couldn’t decipher as a girl, she now understood to be desire. When the wine was gone, so was the look. All that was left was a man who promised to place himself between her and the King. A man who promised to keep her safe. 

 

He didn’t speak, keeping his eyes straight ahead, to the setting sun on the horizon as Sansa observed him, wiping at her eyes with his old and tattered handkerchief. His face was almost exactly as she remembered. A few extra lines of age at his eyes appeared when he spoke and there was a streak of gray in his beard she couldn’t recall being there before. He seemed larger; stronger than before.

 

“Tell them it’s mine,” he said, breaking the silence between them, though he still watched the sun bleed out onto the frozen landscape. “Once your battle’s won, you tell them it was me.” 

 

She blinked in surprise, her tears stopping at his words. He would take her burden as his own? “But we’re not-” she said, wondering how they’d gone from the night of the Blackwater to here, with him willing to bind himself to her and the son he did not sire. They weren’t lovers or partners, or anything, as far as she was aware. 

 

“Tell them I forced you,” he rasped, fists clenching around the sword he held in front of him. “If you can’t live with Bolton seed, claim it’s a Clegane.” 

 

That wasn’t right! He’d saved her from rape once!  Sansa lifted her head, angry that he would suggest she lie about such an act from _ him _ .  He was the only one she knew, with absolute certainty, that would never harm her in such a way. 

 

“No, that won’t-”

 

“They’ll believe it. People saw us leave together. You’ve been crying. Make sure you’re still doing it when we go back. Take their pity that the dog couldn’t keep his paws off you, if that’s a prettier story for you than bearing Bolton’s son.” 

 

“I will not! Let me speak!,” she shouted. It was her turn and he  _ would _ listen.  “You know they would take your life? Jon would have you beheaded. He would do it himself and Arya . . . Arya would lose one of the only people she has faith in anymore. She told me how you protected her.” 

 

“I was after gold. That little wolf was supposed to keep me in women and wine for years.”

 

“No,” she said, more to herself than him, shaking her head. “That’s how it started. It’s not how it ended.”  

 

Snow began to fall around them and large flakes of white caught in his hair. It was longer now, though the curls still remained, and his beard had come in fuller.  The scars were terrible as ever, but they didn’t frighten her as they had in the past. Now they made her sad in a way. Sad for the boy Petyr once told her about and the man that had been molded from cruelty. She had scars as well, though not as visible as the Hound’s, and she understood the urge to hate all the world for them. 

 

“I don’t want Ramsay’s babe, but I won’t have you suffer on my behalf,” she said, keeping her tone gentle, a silent apology strung between her next words in place of the thanks she should have given him for all he’d done for her in the past.  “I don’t want to watch you die. I don’t want  _ you _ to die.  I don’t want my family to punish you for a crime you didn’t commit.” 

 

“They won’t,” he argued.  “I’ll leave before you tell them. If they find me, if they can take me, I’ll-” 

 

“No,” she said, using the tree of her ancestors for support as she rose. Her voice was firm, the Lady of House Stark had spoken. With one word Sandor knew she’d never agree to his plan.  “I won’t do it. You are many things, but you’ve never hurt me. You’ve never hurt Arya. If-if I were to claim it to be yours, why must it be forced?”

 

She hadn’t meant to say the last part, and Sansa chewed at her bottom lip while watching his face contort as he tried to comprehend what it could mean. Then his face split in a wide grin as he laughed. The sound was as deep and broad as all the rest of him, but it changed at the end, when a boy’s squeaking giggle emerged. It was unexpected from a man his size, and oddly endearing.

 

“You mean marriage?” he managed between bellows.  “You’ve lost your head, girl. You don’t want me. You think they’d believe  _ that  _ over rape? 

 

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me. Is that still true?” she said. “I believe it is.”

 

“All right,” he said, still laughing and wiping water from the corners of his eyes, “let’s have it your way. You going to wake up next to  _ this  _ every day? Tell everyone this is the face of your beloved?”

 

Sansa wanted to strike him across his cheek. She would have if she could have reached him. Her voice was the sudden, sharp prick of a sewing needle as she spoke. “You don’t know what I’ve been through. How dare you compare seeing your face to what was done to me! I’m not a child anymore! I know the difference between men who look like monsters and those who  _ are  _ monsters!”

 

His laughter halted, sure and swift as a galloping horse pulled by the reins. There in one breath and gone the next, as if it had never existed. The same hard expression of rage she’d seen the day of the bread riots crept into his eyes. “Ask Beric,” he growled. “He’s got more honor than me. Or Thoros, or any of the green boys in line, if they can keep their mouths shut. Any one of them would trade a bastard for a chance at bedding you.”

 

“I’m not going to whore myself for silence! I’ll bear the child, and name it after it’s bastard father before I allow that to happen. You offered to claim it as yours. I do not accept your terms. Do you accept mine?”  

 

Closing the distance between them, he looked her up and down. He lifted a hand, brought it up to her face and Sansa waited for his kiss. A part of her  _ wanted _ him to. If he could give her some small sign that what she suspected of him was true, she would welcome him. 

 

But his touch never came. His fingers stopped short of any contact and the scarred side of his face twitched. In his eyes she saw the same look he gave her the night of the Blackwater, in that moment before he left her for what she assumed would be forever. Sorrow, disappointment and soulful pain. Her breath caught in her throat as understanding came to her. 

 

She had  _ hurt _ him. Somehow, her actions had caused him an inner pain. Then and now, past and present. She wanted to speak, apologize to him, but she was unsure of what it was she should be sorry for. 

 

“Get your horse,” he said, turning from her. “I’m taking you back.” 

 

***************************

 

Sandor was furious. A full night and day gone by and Sansa hadn’t spoken one word to him. Night was coming again, the snow hadn’t stopped, there was a battle to be won in two days time and she was avoiding him and his offer. 

 

The plan made sense to him. She was the unreasonable one! She didn’t want him, not truly. The proof of that was the pain he’d felt when he tried to touch her once again. She only wanted a way out, and his way was as good as any. Anyone who came after him wouldn’t be able to track him. He was far too swift and strong to be caught by man or beast and Lady Stoneheart would have them walking the same paths for weeks as he escaped. 

 

_ Fuck her dreams! _ Did she think they’d marry and be happy? She was still lost in stories! A marriage forged in desperation wasn’t one for bards to sing of. Did she expect him to share a bed with her and never touch her? Or sleep elsewhere, cold and alone as he’d always been? Is that how she wanted to live her life? Just as lonely and empty as he? 

 

He was finished with her fairy tales. He’d find her and -fuck being honorable- he would holler until she listened. He didn’t bother with his armor, or even his cloak. Marching from his tent to hers, he caught a whiff something putrid in the air. Meat that was off, or an animal in the woods, struck by an arrow and not having the common sense to fucking lay down and die. 

 

Near Sansa’s tent, guards drank and talked around a bonfire, noting Sandor’s presence and nodding to him. He meant to call her name, give her time to decide if she wished for him to enter or speak outside, but instead he shoved the heavy flap of her tent out of his way, entering unannounced, fear spreading throughout limbs. The rotted scent was coming from her tent. Her space was larger than his, lamps were lit and he saw a shape curled in on itself laying on her bed. The gamey scent of cooling blood filled his nostrils, making him choke.  

 

It was death.

 

“Jon!” he shouted, running to her bedside. He wasn’t the type of man to call for aide, but what else was there to do? There was no enemy for him to slay. Only a bird; a tiny, fragile bird with feathers coated in slick gore.

 

There was blood! Blood enough to soak the furs beneath her, and a rapidly growing stain between her legs hinting at where it all came from. There was a crunch from the ground, and he lifted his boot to find a crushed teacup, graceful and out of place with a war at hand; Sansa’s mark on the bleakness around her, and he had destroyed it. 

 

Sansa’s eyelids fluttered as she whimpered and Sandor inhaled, unaware he had been holding his breath. She was alive! He tore off one of his gloves, touching her forehead. She was on fire and there was no pain for him.

 

_ Fucking spirit whore! _ This touch he was allowed?

 

He shouted at Sansa, smacked her face and hated himself for doing so, but she didn’t respond. Pulling her eyelids up he was met with white.

 

“. . .burns,” she moaned in her sleep and he bit his tongue to keep from weeping.

 

Sandor was unaware of the exact moment Jon entered the tent. It might have been seconds or hours. But he was there, pulling at Sandor’s arm, asking him questions he had no answers for, and calling for guards and a Maester. Picking a shard of the teacup from the ground, Sandor sniffed at it, then quickly gagged and threw the treacherous porcelain far from Sansa. Vicious and acidic. It smelled like one of Cersei’s brews after a night with Robert. Hints of mint and aged honey. Pennyroyal and Tansy, and all of it too strong.

 

“Moon tea,” he said, his voice as dead as the babe and its nest. The fast little beat of its heart was gone. 

 

“What?” Jon said. “But she’s not-” he began only to realize the absurdity of his remark. It was possible, of course it was. But he had been left out of his sister’s confidence.

 

“Sansa . . .” Jon breathed, hands hovering over his sister’s body. The grief in his voice matched the pain in Sandor’s chest. It was there, between his ribs, trying to break him.  

 

“Move,” Sandor ordered, pushing emotions aside and taking charge. “Fucking move, boy! Fuck waiting on a Maester.”  

 

He lifted Sansa into his arms. She seemed to weigh nothing at all. Rushing out into the snow, now up to is shins, Sandor cradled her limp body, as Jon pointed the way to the Maester. The night was frigid but her blood was warm as his tunic wicked the crimson from her dress. 

 

Arya joined them halfway there, alerted by guards. She said something and Sandor didn’t hear her. There were too many thoughts and memories and fucking useless feelings all shouting inside his head. He yelled at her to find rope, that Ramsay was a dead man, and to meet him back at his tent to help with his armor, and she did as she was told, eyes alight with the shared knowledge that they would take revenge on Sansa’s tormentor together.  They wouldn’t wait for a battle. It would end this night. 

 

Sansa’s lost blood began to freeze, her dress fusing to Sandor’s tunic, connecting them for what might be the first and last time. Snow fell onto her eyelashes, the heat from her cheeks melting them and for the second time in his life Sandor prayed. 

 

_ Not again. Please. Not her _ .  _ Not another shackle. _

  
  


***********************************

  
  


_ His sister loved to dance on the frozen lake near their home. It was Sandor’s second Winter. He could not recall his first, but his sister told him about it. How the air became cold enough to turn water solid and make a new place for them to play. She had put him in a wooden crate and pulled him across the slippery surface, as he laughed and clapped for her.  _

 

_ He had been so happy, she told him, before the fire and the year that followed. His sister was the only one to love him, with his mangled face, and he loved her in return for it. She was determined that he find happiness again.  Every time it snowed, she smiled, telling him they were one more week closer to sharing their favorite winter game again.  _

 

_ She should have waited longer.  _

 

_ The ice held -she insisted on testing it first- when she threw rocks out to the middle. Taking up a tall stick, she walked the edges, probing the ice in front of her, working her way inward. All was well, as he waited on the banks, until her feet flew out of from under her and she crashed down onto the ice and then straight through! _

 

_ Shock and fear made him cry. There was no one to help him and he was still boy enough to stay rooted in place, screaming for his father and watching his sister’s arms flail above the waterline.  _

 

_ No one came.  _

 

_ In the end, he crawled out to the hole in the ice on his belly, caught her hair and somehow pulled her out. She didn’t breathe and her pale blue eyes were vacant and unseeing.  _

 

_ Her dress, streaming with water, froze to his tunic. He should not have been able to carry her weight. She seemed to weigh nothing at all. Tears turned to ice on his cheeks. His feet were numb. He walked. Love was a shackle.  _

  
  


*************************************

 

Sandor stepped from the Maester’s tent. He wasn’t a healer, he was a soldier and there was nothing he could do inside the tent full of herbs, tinctures and tomes. He inhaled deeply, through his nose, lifting his head to the sky and closing his eyes. Under the layers of cloth he wore, he felt wetness against his chest. Blood.  _ Sansa’s blood.  _ The sensation was heart-stopping, a feeling -a  _ thing _ \-  to be hidden, closed off, drowned in sour red and forgotten. One of many that couldn’t be seen or touched, but was physical all the same, and with that physicality came power, and he would not submit to any of it.

 

_ Moon tea! She took fucking moon tea! She chose that over a lie. No sense in it. None. Would have married her if she’d told me this was going to be her choice. And she’d end up miserable, thinking she had to fuck me or watch me drink and whore. I should have never offered. I should have gutted Ramsay instead.  _

 

_ Ramsay! _

 

Sandor growled, opening his eyes. Ramsay was the reason for all of this! He’d carve the bastard up, one piece at a time. A shiver of anticipation crawled up his spine. He’d make it slow, torturous and avenge the little bird. There was only his armor and weapons to collect. Then his plan could be set in motion. 

 

**********************************

 

Arya stood in the middle of his tent, arms full of rope as he had asked. She tossed it onto his cot. “Are we going to kill Ramsay?” 

 

Sandor nodded, taking a step forward. He was going down yet another level in hell for what he was about to do next.  _ Fuck’s sake, the little wolf trusted him _ . 

 

“What’s the rope for?” 

 

“You,” he rasped, clamping a hand over her mouth. She kicked, trying to land a hit to his groin, and he flipped her around, wrestling her to the ground, and digging a knee into her spine. “You and that bastard brother of yours.” 

  
  



	13. The Love Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet. Another rough and bloody one. Ramsay gets his. 
> 
> Musical Inspiration (good mood music this time around!) - The Love Letter (instrumental version), by Blaqk Audio  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XIhmcUy-Ojk

Ramsay Bolton looked down at Sandor’s captives as a snake might size up its next meal. But that wasn’t quite right, Sandor thought. A snake merely did what it was created to do. It hunted, found its prey, killed and ate it. It survived, nothing more. Ramsay reminded Sandor of a feline, cold and calculating. A cat would hunt even if its belly was full, spurred by a need to end life for its own amusement. It enjoyed the hunt, the kill and every step in between. Sandor knew the sweet thrill of battle -of taking life and knowing he was more powerful than those he killed- but there was always a point where he felt sated.  Ramsay, he sensed, had no limits. He was insatiable, always hungry for more pain and suffering to be laid upon his next victim. 

 

It was the eyes. There was a killer inside him, Sandor could see that. He’d seen those eyes set inside his own face. They shared that much and that was where it ended. There was more to Ramsay, behind the mask of a simple soldier or sword for hire; a gleam of murderous delight. A mix of Gregor’s brutality and Tywin’s cunning intellect. A good measure of complete indifference and a ferocity to match Sandor’s, and together they made a man who lacked any and all ties to being truly human. 

 

_ He’s insane. Fucking insane. A predator, not a man. _

 

“I don’t surprise easily,” Ramsay said, surveying the group before him. “I wasn’t expecting guests dragged in by a dog.” 

 

“Heard you liked dogs,” Sandor answered, pulling at the ropes held tightly in his fist. Arya, Jon and Thoros all stumbled forward, bound by the wrists and gagged. They all shouted, muffled sounds dampened by the cloth shoved inside their mouths. Blood dripped down Jon’s cheek from a cut on his scalp and drool seeped from under Thoros’ gag to collect in his beard.

 

“My hounds are bred to be ruthless and trained to be butchers,” Ramsay said. “Some might say the same for you. There are stories. . .” 

 

“Never flayed a man,” Sandor said with a shrug. 

 

“Then you’ve missed out on life,” Ramsay said. “My hounds are also loyal. Tell me, where does your loyalty lie, Clegane? The last anyone heard, you told the King himself to fuck off.” 

 

“Aye, and I’m still alive, aren’t I?” 

 

“That’s not an answer.” 

 

“My loyalty goes to who pays the most. Out on the road, a man’s free, but freedom doesn’t buy meat and whores. I want land when this is over. A woman. I brought the three of them in exchange and my sword to add to your army.” 

 

“You left the little one her weapon,” Ramsay observed, not yet taking Sandor’s bait. Bolton’s bastard might have been stark-raving mad, but he wasn’t stupid. Needle was still in its scabbard at Arya’s side -it might have been a foolish move on Sandor’s part- but it was too late now. There were only so many weapons he could carry for the group before suspicion would have begun to grow. If they had asked him to leave his weapons at the gate, they all would have been fucked. Their pride was their downfall. They had the numbers to take any normal man down, should he chance an attack, but Sandor was no longer normal by any standard, Ramsay’s soldiers were ignorant of the fact, and this was _ his _ advantage. 

 

A knife, a longsword, his axe and Needle to share amongst all four of them. It was all they had, and Sandor  _ would  _ see them through. 

 

“You scared of a girl?” Sandor rasped. 

 

Ramsay smiled, a menacing flash of teeth visible between his grub-like lips as he stood. “Not at all. Tell me how you caught them.” 

 

“I know how to hunt a man, and this one’s a drunk,” Sandor said, pointing first to Thoros and then down the line. “That one’s arrogant and the wolf bitch trusts too easily.”  Ramsay seemed unimpressed with the story, taking up a bow that had been leaning against his chair on the dais in front of Sandor’s group. The men in the hall -at least thirty by Sandor’s count- shifted and reached for their weapons, waiting on Ramsay’s order. 

 

“The camp’s a fucking mob,” Sandor continued.  “No one noticed them gone. The older girl, your Lady wife, drank bad moon tea. Last I saw she was bleeding out inside a Maester’s tent.” 

 

Ramsay had an arrow notched, aimed at Sandor, but let his arm fall. The wood in his hands creaked dangerously. “ _ What  _ did she do?” 

 

Jon’s breathing changed, becoming short and labored, before he toppled over, seizing on the ground while spittle bubbled from under his gag. Arya yanked on the rope holding her back, failing to free herself, and Thoros looked down at Jon horrified. 

 

_ About bloody time! _

 

“I want him alive!” Ramsay shouted. “I want the Starks alive! If your prize dies, so do you.” 

 

Turning his back, Sandor knelt on one knee, blocking Ramsay’s line of sight. He crouched over Jon, who opened his eyes and stopped gurgling. Sandor pulled on Thoros’ rope, forcing him to kneel as well. 

 

“Make it quick,” Sandor whispered, cutting through Jon’s ropes. He flipped his knife and placed it in Jon’s hands. Turning to Thoros, Sandor lowered the man’s gag and spoke again, louder, so that Ramsay could hear him. “Best say your prayers now, Priest. You heard him. Starks die, so do you.” 

 

Nodding to Arya, Sandor rose. If she couldn’t work her way out of the journeyman’s knot he’d tied around her wrists, all the training and knowledge her Faceless Men passed on to her was worth less than pig shit. They all knew what to do and the time was now. 

 

Sandor spun on his heel, while Thoros continued to kneel, clutching the jewel around his neck. The priest mumbled words Sandor didn’t understand, and it didn’t matter. It was _ who _ Thoros was calling with his incantation that was important. 

 

The torches in the great room blew out as one, and darkness descended. An evil laughter started as a low rumble, outside the walls, and soon became a deafening roar. The world around Sandor slowed, as it had when he killed the mob of bandits. With every step he took, the torches flickered out and back to life, sparks flying each time they relit. He pulled his sword from its scabbard, tossing it behind him, knowing either Thoros or Jon would catch it. 

 

On the dais, Ramsay took aim and fired his arrow. It should have flown through the air but instead it dragged, allowing Sandor time to block it with his ax. Behind Ramsay’s chair, The Lady stood and smiled. 

 

Sandor could hear the clash of swords around him. The shouts of men as the fell. Like lightning the torches flashed, and with each new burst of light, another of Ramsay’s men dropped on the spot, blood pouring from their ears and eyes, as The Lady watched with a look of bliss on her face. Whatever men she left standing, Sandor’s small group would destroy. 

 

All but Ramsay. Ramsay was Sandor’s, and Sandor’s alone. He had made that perfectly clear. 

 

Sandor climbed the steps of the dais as Ramsay struggled to notch another arrow in time. The bastard looked truly frightened. One second more and Sandor was on him, shoving him back into his chair. The Lady stayed behind him, sliding her arms down the length of Ramsay’s, and clasped his fingers tight in her own. 

 

_ “He cannot move. I will keep him still,” _ The Lady said.  _ “He will remain alive as long as you like. Do you wish to hear him scream?”  _

 

“Aye,” Sandor said, slicing through the stays on Ramsay’s breeches. “Was going to save this for last. First is better.” Without ceremony, he grasped a fistful of cock, pulled it far from Ramsay’s body and hacked the entire lump away. Ramsay’s squealing cry of agony was glorious; wretched and beautiful all at once. 

 

“That was for the Lady Stark,” Sandor growled. Ramsay continued to scream, his eyes rolling back and forth, searching for some way out of his prison of immobility. The Lady rubbed her cheek against his, and licked the tears from his face. 

 

“ _ More, _ ” she said, as wantonly as a woman begged a man lapping between her thighs.

 

Sandor was  _ not,  _ and never had been, a man of words. He’d never written a poem in all his life. Not one line of a love letter. No words of passion or sonnets of a life ever after.  But with Sansa’s blood still stuck fast to his chest, Sandor wrote volumes of prose. Bruises and cuts and pain; it was all part of an exquisite whole. His fists were the quill and Ramsay’s flesh the paper.  

 

It wasn’t enough. Sansa deserved more from him. More than a sword or shield. Only a monster could give her a worthy story, scrawled straight from his heart, and bound between his slipping sanity.

 

Broken bones, severed fingers, deforming incisions. Any sinister pleasure he’d denied himself in his life, he gave himself over to. Fury, Hate, Rage and all the others -they were alive- inside him, and consuming any trace of the man Honor thought him to be. The Hound was free, gnashing its teeth and caught up in the rapturous scent of revenge. He tortured the bastard, slowly and deliberately, as he had promised himself, and if Righteousness was not yet a God, Sandor would have sworn he was destined to fill the role. 

 

He didn’t stop when Jon pulled at him, or when Thoros called his name. 

 

“Stop!” Arya cried. Her hand landed on his forearm. “Stop. He’s finished. Look at him! Just end it!” 

 

That was the voice that gave him pause. The man seated in front of Sandor was nothing but limbs and glistening pulp. Gashes in his stomach revealed innards, and his face was pulverized meat with a tongue hanging loose from jaws that had been broken. The living corpse wheezed through lungfuls of blood. Shit and piss and Gods knew what other fluids pooled at its feet. 

 

“It’s enough,” Arya said softly. 

 

Sandor wasn’t sure what made him lower his ax, but something inside him knew he was more like Gregor in that moment than himself, and it shamed him. It  _ was _ over. The little wolf was right. Sandor dragged Ramsay’s corpse down from the dais, slamming it onto the ground. With one mighty swing, he severed Ramsay’s head from his body and watched it roll

 

************************************

 

The scholars would mark the date in their historic scrolls. A day of infamy, when House Stark returned to its former glory, more powerful than ever. Young blood taking back what was theirs by right and legions of soldiers from across the land joining forces to fight for their King in the North. 

 

Bards with lutes, and women with harps, could have written songs to bring the masses to tears over that night. Pretty stories of valor for girls to swoon over and lads to look up to. Tales of the brave Hound avenging his lady love and gifting the house of her forefathers back to her family. How the powers beyond rewarded him with the handsome face that had been stolen from him in his youth. They would sing of the Lady Stark, waking from her slumber, unharmed and grateful to her sword, her brother offering her hand to the man who had saved them all, while a chorus of howling wolves echoed over the land. They’d speak of the years that followed, filled with laughter and love and children. The sweet summer after a long winter. 

 

It was horse shit. All of it. Sandor burned through the night, blinded by hate and bloodlust. He stalked the halls, carrying Ramsay’s head by the hair in one hand and his ax in the other. No man withstood him. There was no fair fight or matched strength. The floors ran red with blood, boots tracked it throughout the stone corridors, and the walls were splattered with chunks of flesh and splinters of bone. The Onion Knight, and Beric, arrived with reinforcements. Sandor didn’t need them, but let them claim their own small victories. All the soldiers did was shorten the time it took to lay waste to Ramsay’s forces. 

 

Rickon Stark was saved, and not by Sandor’s hand. He had been occupied with feeding Ramsay’s head to the very dogs he had trained. Sandor tossed it into the kennels and waited until every bit of skin and muscle had been chewed away, leaving a skull shining with pink foam and scraps of sinew. The dogs whined as he approached, laying down in postures of submission. An eye hung from one of the larger one’s jowls by a strip of flesh. Sandor reached into the circle of hounds, grasped Ramsay’s skull, and rammed it onto the spikes at his shoulder. Then he left, leaving the kennel doors open behind him, to find more enemies to kill. 

 

His path of destruction was like no other in his life that night. It was a path he chose freely and willingly, letting every dark thought and unspeakable ambition take over. When the screams finally stopped, when the carnage was over, he found himself shaking, drenched in sweat, and the blood of countless men. Though he was armored, the blood found its way between every slight gap to baptize him in accursed glory.  It was over, and he wanted  _ more _ . 

 

He might have gone on forever that way. Moving from Winterfell, to the next town, and the next, searching for others to slay in his madness, but he heard a man shout Sansa’s name and the fury inside him transformed back into fear. 

 

_ Little bird? _

 

The soldier pointed down a hall when Sandor questioned him. Another sent him up a set of stairs. One lead at a time, he followed the crumbs of information until he found himself staring down a long corridor. Jon was squatting outside a door, Sandor’s sword supporting his weight. His forehead was pressed against the blade as he swayed back and forth. Arya paced the same seven steps up and down in front of her brother. 

 

“Where is she?” Sandor barked, his voice booming and causing each sibling to jerk. He pulled at his helm and threw it against a wall. “Where the fuck is she!” 


	14. That's Where The Heart Is, That's How You Kill A Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Musical Influence - One Republic (piano duet) - Apologize  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fqAqxE8Qs_w
> 
> Tissues. Find tissues.

“It’s father’s room,” Jon said, his eyes blank and focused somewhere on the floor.  There was blood splattered across his pale face; vivid spots of scarlet on a canvas of snow.  Jon’s tunic was shining with the slick black of dried gore and Sandor wondered if any of it was Ramsay’s. Had the madness of before been entirely his doing? 

 

Most of Jon’s hair was no longer drawn back from his face. It hung limply, framing the sorrow of his features. “It has the most room. They can work. They can make her better.”  Jon’s words were lifeless, his confidence gone.  He looked like he might weep, but instead shoved himself off the wall behind him, clumsily passed Sandor his sword, and walked unsteadily down the hallway. Sandor made to grab his arm, to gain more information, but it was  _ his _ arm that felt the tug of another person.

“Let him go,” Arya said, pulling at a bit of sleeve between the pieces of armor on Sandor’s forearm. “He needs air. We all do. Come on.”  

 

Her voice hoarse and thick as she tried to move Sandor. Something wasn’t right. Sandor stood, staring at the closed wooden door before him. He was solid and still as a stone wall, while Arya pulled at him again, harder and with both her hands, digging her heels into the floor beneath her. It was something that might have been laughable between the two of them at an earlier time; the little wolf attempting to move the giant in front of her. There was nothing humorous about it now. The tears in Arya’s eyes and the way she nearly hung from his arm in an attempt to move him were pathetic and desperate.  

“I need to see her,” Sandor ground out through clenched teeth.

“You don’t!” Arya shouted, angry at the world once again and taking her fears out on him. “There’s nothing you can do, stupid idiot! Let them work!”  Sandor couldn’t recall a time he had ever seen Arya cry, but she was doing so in earnest now. Fists that had tried to tear his arm from its socket moments ago, pummeled his torso, each blow weaker than the one before. “There’s nothing!” Arya wept. Energy spent, she hunched her back and cried into her hands. “I never hated her,” Sandor heard from behind Arya’s shaking hands. “I never wanted her to die.”

_ Die?! _

That wasn’t going to happen! That wasn’t an option. Was it? There had been blood, that’s all. Pack or bind the wound, apply pressure and all would be well. It was that simple. Any soldier worth his training knew that and should have been able to save Sansa. Why was death on Arya’s lips?

Sandor shouldered past Arya, the little she-wolf’s fears forgotten in the wake of yet another threat to Sansa. It was wrong, perhaps, to abandon the young girl, but when forced to choose, it was Sansa that won. It was always her.

The door wasn’t bolted, but if it had been, Sandor knew he would have kicked it in. He entered, confusion and what was quickly becoming a terror so real he could taste it, bitter and brackish on his tongue, making his heart race. In his haste, Sandor hardly realized he had ripped the entire latch from its resting place until he heard it clatter to the floor at his feet. 

It was well lit inside the main bedchamber of Winterfell. Light of all kind had been brought in to encircle the large bed in which Sansa had been placed. Candles and oil lamps burned within tall scones or on tables, with barely enough room for a man to pass between any of them. Their heat could be felt from the doorway, matching the red flush of fever on Sansa’s cheeks. A thin sheet of linen was all that covered her and it had been drawn down her chest, almost exposing her breasts. There wasn’t one speck of porcelain left to her features. Everywhere it was swirls of blisters, swollen with clear fluids and the purplish red that indicated the first signs of decay. It gave her skin a mottled, corrosive look that Sandor knew all too well.

The camp’s Maester, and a lad with only one chain around his neck, were at either side of Sansa. The novice was carefully binding one of Sansa’s arms with bandages while the Maester used a forefinger to spread a thick, gray paste across Sansa’s chest. Sandor could see Sansa’s limbs jerk, though her eyes were closed. Her breathing was rapid, shallow and shuddering. Thoros, hands clasped in prayer at the foot of the bed, lifted his head when Sandor entered.

“Clegane,” Thoros warned, immediately dropping his hands and walking towards Sandor. “You need to leave. You need to leave now.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Sandor bellowed, causing the novice to start and look up from his task. Sandor clenched Thoros’ robes within his hands, lifting the man several inches off the ground. “What have you done to her?”  Thoros kicked and Sandor lifted him higher.

“Clegane!” the Maester said, his tone authoritative and calm at the same time. “Lower him. It is not his doing. Nor mine or yours. Perhaps, not even hers.”

“Who’s then?” Sandor demanded, tossing Thoros to the side. “I’ll gut them. I’ll do them worse than Ramsay!”

“Her brew was too strong. Far too strong,” the Maester explained. “Had she done it properly there would have been a mild fever and pain. Moon tea is an awful, acidic potion. It burns all, not just the growing babe. But in a small dose, a babe dies while the mother lives. Too much and . . .” the Maester’s voice faded as he waved a hand over Sansa and looked down upon the Lady sadly. “It’s burning her. From the inside out. She may survive it. She may not. But the sores-“

“She’s going to scar?” Sandor asked, leaping to the conclusion before it could be said aloud. It felt as if every organ within his body had withered and turned to ash.

The Maester gave him a wordless, stern look before nodding his head.

Sandor forced the next question past his lips, though he already knew the answer. “Worse than me?” 

_ Say no, Gods let him say no and I’ll swear my life over to you. I’ll take the Septon’s place. I’ll take vows. I’ll pray. I’ll do anything. Anything _ .  

Again, there was silence before the Maester frowned and nodded, taking up the bandages to finish binding Sansa’s arm.  Sandor heard a sound, guttural and strange, before realizing it was himself that was falling apart.

Panic, the likes of which Sandor had never known, crashed down upon him fast as lightning and twice as shocking. Sansa might  _ die _ . There was a good chance that she would, and there wasn’t a thing his sword or shield could do to prevent it. And if she survived she’d be maimed, deformed and shunned. He would accept her, but the world would not. He, of all people, knew the future that awaited her if she woke. A horrible thought came to him that he would rather she die than have to go through life as he had. It wasn’t life at all; only anger and pain and an endless search for anything to make him forget the cruelty that had saturated the world around him.  Sansa had lived too long as a beauty.  To have her entire body taken from her was a punishment Sandor wasn’t sure she’d survive.

Sandor couldn’t draw his next breath. Dozens of images of Sansa suffering, as he had throughout the years, assaulted his mind. Each twitch from Sansa, lying in her bed, was another twist to Sandor’s innards and a blow to his heart. He was wood being planed and shaved down layer by layer, deeper and deeper into a chasm of terrible memories. There was a long, drawn out scrape in Sandor’s ears at every flash of the past racing through his mind.

_ A crushed toy, a wooden knight, smashed and broken as he was. The combined stench of both burning hair and flesh. It lingered in his nostrils for days afterwards, causing him to vomit, even in his sleep. _

Twitch.

_ Sssscape. _

_ The time he managed to free his head from the ropes they held him down with and fell asleep with his cheek pressed to the sheets. The next morning, the thin layer of skin that had just begun to grow back had stuck and they had to peel his face away to free him. _

Twitch.

_ Sssscrape. _

_ Weeks later, when he finally found a looking glass, hidden away in one of his mother’s drawers, and nearly pissed himself at the sight of his new face. _

Twitch.

_ Sssscrape. _

_ The day he stopped letting the other children throw rocks at him and made sure each one of them got a taste of his fists. Each knuckle was stained with some other boy’s blood and he felt proud that he could make others hurt as well. _

Twitch.

_ Sssscrape. _

_ The first girl to laugh in his face at his advances. Then the first whore to accept his coin. _

Twitch.

_ Ssssscrape. _

_ Gregor standing on the steps of the Great Sept, his hair shining with oil and holding a newly forged sword. _

There was a glimmer of wetness at the corner of Sansa’s eye. “You’re hurting her,” Sandor growled, his own eyes stinging as if shards of ice were being driven into them.

“She’s had more milk of the poppy than she should,” the Maester replied. “She’s sleeping. Her body might flinch but she doesn’t know what is happening.”

Sandor held a palm to his chest. It felt as if there were an entire herd of horses standing on his chest, pressing and pawing at his ribs to slow his heart. The Maester knew nothing! Sandor knew. They had forced the same liquid down his throat when he was young, but there was no sleep deep enough to keep from feeling the hands that scrubbed his dead, burnt flesh away or the tweezers that plucked debris from the muscles of his jaw. Sandor had silently screamed and begged them to stop in his mind, while his eyes refused to open and no one had heard him.

Drawing his sword, Sandor lunged forward, knocking several of the candle holders to the floor. The novice called out in alarm, leaving Sansa and stamping on the open flames licking at the carpeted floor. The tip of Sandor’s blade found its way beneath the Maester’s chin, tilting it up so he could look into the man’s eyes. “Leave her be,” he commanded, “take your fucking hands off her and leave or all of you die.”

Thoros approached from behind, trying to address Sandor from the side not bearing a sword. The priest touched Sandor’s shoulder gently. “Clegane, it’s for the bes-“

Sandor’s fist connected solidly with Thoros’ flesh, the crack of breaking bone effectively silencing the man. Thoros cursed and grabbed at his face, while blood poured from between his cupped hands.  “Get. Out.” Sandor’s voice was brutal and unfeeling. Vengeance had taught him well. The Maester held his hands up and away from Sansa. Holding fast to his sword with one hand, Sandor reached without looking and took the novice’s chain in his other hand. Dragging the younger man alongside him, Sandor kept his sword aimed directly at the Maester’s throat and slowly led them to the door. Thoros was on the floor, trying to stop the deluge of blood from his nose with a scrap of linen. Sandor kicked at him. “Get up! Out! I swear I’ll break more than your nose next if you don’t move.” Thoros found his footing and was the first out of the door and into the hallway.

“What have you done?” Arya screeched, taking in the sight of Thoros’ face, the half-strangled novice and the blade herding the Maester from Sansa’s room. “What have you done! You’ve killed her! I  _ hate _ you! I hate-“

Sandor slammed the door in all their faces then bolted the top and bottom of the door. He took chairs, tables, dressers, and whatever else he could find that wasn’t nailed down, piling it all against the door. They would bring others, and a ram if necessary, but by the time anyone made it through the door what needed done would be finished.  His vision blurred as he stumbled to Sansa.

 

There was a knife on the table beside her bed, most likely for the Maester to cut bandages with, but it would serve his purpose. It was small but sharp. His hands shook as he tried to grasp it firmly. He’d make it quick, merciful, as he’d done before for man, woman and beast. One thrust between her ribs and there would be no future to suffer through. She could find rest with her Gods. Perhaps there really was a heaven for her to go to, with her father and brother waiting on her. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, choking on his words. His hand wouldn’t stop shaking, no matter how hard he willed it to stop. He wasn’t going to risk making her suffer any more. 

 

_ Coward! Do it! _

 

But his arm refused to move forward. It wasn’t Lady Stoneheart’s doing. The force holding him back was his own mutinous feelings. He  _ knew _ what needed to be done. Mercy was the truest act of devotion he could give to her. He cursed and shouted and tried again to plunge the knife into Sansa’s heart and he couldn't! 

 

“Fuck!” he sobbed, dropping the knife and falling to the floor. His head rested against her hip as his gloved hands wrung the sheets, and he wept for her and the life he was dooming her to. Every look of scorn and disgust she would have to endure, every turn of the head and whispered insult behind her back -it would all be because he was too craven to end it now. 

 

Then his head lifted suddenly and he gulped for air. There might be a way! One way. One chance. That was all he had.

“Stoneheart!” Sandor called. The wind wailed outside but the Lady did not appear. “Heartless bitch! You show yourself! I’m owed a boon!”

The winds outside, rushed in. The candle’s flames flickered but did not go out. Sandor shivered and did not need to turn around as he stood. to know the Lady was with him.

“ _ You are ready to claim what was promised? _ ” the Lady asked.

“Aye, a face for a Stark in Winterfell. That was the bargain?” Sandor led.

The Lady stepped forward to stand beside Sandor. “ _ That was the agreement. You wish for it here? Now? _ ”

“Do you see her?” Sandor questioned, pointing at Sansa. “Do you know her?”

“ _She_ _has Stark blood. My vessel’s blood. She is home_.”

“She’s going to die.”

“ _ No, she is not _ .”

Sandor inhaled sharply, biting the inside of his cheek to keep another sob of relief from escaping him. “She’s going to look like me. Worse than me,” Sandor faced the Lady, trying to see into the eyes that held no life.  “I want you to give what I’ve earned to her.”

“ _ That was not our arrangement _ ,” the Lady said with indifference.

“That’s your daughter!” Sandor near screamed.  “Heal her! If you can do it for me, you can do it for her.”

“ _ It was not the arrangement _ ,” the Lady repeated, staring at Sandor as if he were some small insect she did not understand. “ _ There was once a woman who loved her children. And then she died and Vengeance wed her soul. One of the men that hurt this woman and her daughter is dead. Vengeance has been served. It does not care what is to become of her as long as she lives, nor do I. The only child I bear is wrath. The only creature that grows in my womb is hate. _ ”

“Fuck you!” Sandor roared, hefting a table up into the air and smashing it against a wall. “This isn’t fair! I don’t want a fucking face! I want her to have one! You asked for a Stark in Winterfell! I gave you three  _ and _ a bastard! Make her well, damn you!”

“ _ What price would you pay for it? _ ” the Lady asked. “ _ A new bargain must be struck _ .”

“There’s no time for that!” Sandor pulled at his hair, cursing at the madness of it all. An idea, foolhardy and rash, came to Sandor as he grabbed the knife lying beside Sansa. Placing its edge below his jaw, he smirked when the Lady’s eyes grew wide. “Listen well, you hateful whore. Take my earnings and give them to her, or I’ll slit my own throat and you’ve lost your sword. There’s still Starks to protect and one left to find.”

“ _ The Red Priest will summon you back. You will be as Beric is _ ,” the Lady hissed, her control of the situation rapidly slipping away from her. 

“Then I’ll do it again. And again. I’ll hang myself. Jump from the towers. March back to King’s Landing and let them draw and quarter me. Maybe they’ll take my head and there’ll be no coming back from that. I’ll die every day for her. You’ll spend more time bringing me back than I’ll spend fighting for you any longer.”

Lady Stoneheart remained silent within Sandor’s mind for several minutes, fury burning in her eyes. He had called her bluff! She knew Sandor would do as he said. “ _ A bargain must be struck for my power to work. A face is not equal to an entire body. The scale would not be balanced between you and I _ ,” she said slowly. “ _ I cannot heal this vessel with nothing to trade for it. But there is one that can. _ ”

Then the Lady’s image faded and disappeared while Sandor howled with rage. Where was she going? He was ready to start tearing down his mountain of broken furnishings and call for Thoros to summon her back, when a blinding white light enveloped the entire room. For a moment Sandor could see nothing. Not Sansa, or the bed, or his hand in front of his face. The white was all consuming, pure and radiant. A feeling passed through Sandor that he hadn’t felt since he was little more than a babe, cradled within his mother’s arms. It was a forgotten feeling come back to life, tender and caring, that swaddled him in peace. 

The light began to fade, ever so slightly, and a form seemed to hover in front of him. Sandor gasped and fell to his knees. He’d never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. Joy squeezed his heart and rapture swelled within him. In the light there was the shape of a woman, naked and with wings spread broadly behind her. The curve of a calf, the point of a toe, the rounded slope of a breast, the line of a jaw; there were only glimpses of her form. Her hair flowed in wavering tendrils, as if it were underwater, yellow and white and silver. The eyes though! They were brilliant orbs of molten gold, brighter than the sun.

The being approached Sandor, still on his knees. Sandor was aware that hot tears were freely flowing from his eyes, streaming down his face and dripping from his chin. Where they came from, he did not know, and in that moment it hardly seemed to matter. “Who are you?” he breathed, awestruck.

The being smiled, wide and magnificent, while placing her palm against Sandor’s cheek. “ _ Not who _ ,” she sighed, kissing his brow and Sandor felt a tingle within his chest that shot straight through to his groin. There were things; infinite, eternal, inexpressible things that began to unfold within him. His heart and mind blended into one cohesive, feeling  _ soul _ that he had given up the search for long ago.  The being’s kiss covered Sandor in a warmth that flowed and rippled within him, making him tremble with a feeling so powerful, it had no place or name he could voice.  Breaking contact with Sandor, the being looked down at him, his body slack with astonishment, and supplied him with the word he was after.

“ _ What.”  _ Sandor heard within his mind. “ _ What I am, is Love _ .”

 


	15. Love Is Not A Victory March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested, there is now cover art for this fic by the incredibly talented Bubug. I placed the link at the beginning of the first chapter.
> 
> Get more tissues. 
> 
> It's probably cliche as hell, but this chapter's musical inspiration is Hallelujah, though this version has a dark, raw feeling to it by the end that suited this chapter. Enjoy! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e1C9kpMV2e8

The sound of men shouting, and the steady thump of wood on wood, made Love lift her head. Sandor remained on his knees, as she waved a hand towards the door, and the pounding stopped.  _ “I will slow them,” _ she said.  _ “We have time.”  _

 

With his initial shock waning, Sandor’s anger returned, warring with the soft caress of grace that had been stirred within him. Love, he thought with disgust.  _ This was the answer? How dare she show herself now!  _ After all the years he’d spent searching for her, only to realize he’d never know her touch. Decades of denial, of shattered hopes and learned hatred, and finally, resignation and  _ now _ she chose to step back into his life? 

 

Love circled him, starting at the buckles on his armor. Shoulders hunched, Sandor’s face grew hard. Love was a lie, he told himself. He’d learned that lesson long ago. As much as he might have yearned for the idea to be true, he didn’t trust the being called Love. 

 

Pieces of armor clattered to the floor, and he didn’t need to speak for Love to hear his inner torment.  _ “I’m sorry, I was gone for so long,” _ she said.  _ “I swear, I’ve been here. I’ve shouted, begged and cried for you to see me, but you blocked your ears and covered your eyes. I was here, but you shunned me. I’ve never been far. I was only waiting until you would listen once again.”  _

 

She offered both her hands, and Sandor took them, wary and still not sure of her intentions. Pulling him to his feet, Love floated around Sandor, until every piece of armor had been removed. _ “Come,”  _ she bid him, pulling at his hands so that he stood at the side of Sansa’s bed. _ “You wish her well?”  _

 

Water still leaked from Sansa’s eyes, down her temple and onto the silken pillows placed beneath her hair. Her lips were cracked, her skin a map of pain. Love frowned, brushing a strand of copper from Sansa’s brow, causing her to gasp and whimper in her sleep. 

 

“Aye,” Sandor rasped, past the lump in his throat. He’d play Love’s game. Whatever she was after, whatever she asked of him, he would submit if it would be to Sansa’s advantage. 

 

_ “You are willing to let go of your dreams? Of what you think will bring you happiness? You would sacrifice a life with her, or another? You would give what is yours, by right, to her?”   _ Love tugged at the thin sheet covering Sansa as she spoke. Sandor growled at seeing Sansa’s exposed breasts, bruised and blistered like all the rest of her flesh, and quickly moved to cover her, but Love placed a hand on his wrist.  _ “It is necessary,” _ she said, moving Sandor’s hand to the center of Sansa’s chest.  _ “Will you save her, instead of yourself?” _

 

Brown and gold eyes, autumn and summer, stared at one another. Love’s hand covered the back of Sandor’s, pressing his palm flat to Sansa’s sores and spread his fingers wide, up and over her left breast. Sandor couldn’t read Love’s eyes, they gave him no clue as to what she was thinking, but he knew that his gave every secret hope away. Of course he’d save her, the little bird that had somehow perched herself inside his heart. A hundred times over, he would try and he would strive, and probably come out of it with nothing to show for his efforts, his soul covered in shit once again, but this was his burden of destiny to bear. He was the darkness and Sansa the light, and he’d stay in his place for her to remain where she belonged. 

 

A grunt and a nod. That was all he could give voice to, but Love’s smile returned with speed.

 

_ “Then I find you worthy, Sandor Clegane, and I will help you and the woman you love. Think on that life you yearn for, and on her. Think of all you want for her,” _ Love said. Heat began to build beneath Sandor’s hand and he tried to pull back. _ “Stay,”  _ Love told him.  _ “She will be well. You are the one that must heal her. I am only the tool, you are the craftsman. Give your dreams to her. She needs your love, not mine, to heal.”  _

 

Sandor swallowed, trying to think of something, anything, but bleak solitude and the quiet whispers that spoke to him in the dead of night. No wine was strong enough to silence the cruel voices that told him he could have had better, he could have had  _ more _ . No painted whore was a replacement for the empty chasm inside him that he both hated and clung to. It was his armor, he had earned it, and in a twisted way, he was proud of the shield he’d built. There was no future for a man like that. No stories or dreams to come true. They had all burned long ago. 

Sansa whimpered again and Sandor growled. “It’s not working!”

 

Love spoke with sympathy clear in her voice.  _  “I can only show you the path. You must walk it. I ask nothing in return, as you do. Give, without thought of repayment. Surge forward, without thought of retreat. Open yourself, without ever closing. This is what I am, a gift that requires no payment.This is what she needs.”  _

 

The present and future would do him no good. Sandor set his features and tried to think back. Back to a time when he still had dreams and beliefs, when the world was pure and untainted. A time when he had been much like Sansa was, when he’d first laid eyes on her. Such a short period of time, when he was a boy, when he’d felt love from his sister, his mother, his nan. His father at times and the stable master, the kennel master, and their young ones.  _ That _ boy had dreams and a future. He would be brave and true, a Knight, shining and gallant like those in the books his mother often read to him. She would kiss his cheek and tell him what a handsome lad he was, how strong he would be one day, and how proud she was of him. At night he dreamt of dragons and the pretty girls he would save. When he was older, he’d take a wife, a fair maiden, to complete the story that should have been his. 

 

He was a cunt. A lying fucking cunt, feeding himself spoonfuls of horseshit through all the years from then until now. The dream had never died. The stories hadn’t burned to ashes.  _ He _ had. And it was easier to tell himself that all was lost rather than face the fact that he still yearned for just one thing that wasn’t covered in darkness. As a youth, as a young man, as the bitter, harsh soldier that he was -he had never stopped wanting. He wanted what every other man had; a woman that was his, that would always be his. One that would welcome him, broken and weak, or loud and thunderous. Hard or soft, she would love him, he would care for her, and together they would create a space that was all their own.

 

It was there. It was all there, his most secret desire, buried deep inside him. _ Love _ . A ghost, rattling her chains, that he had locked away to keep from haunting him. But now! Now, he realized, shuddering, that it wasn’t his dreams that needed fulfilling. It was  _ hers _ . Knights, and the ideals that surrounded them -Honor and Valor and all the others- they stood for something greater than himself. What he wanted for his own, he also wanted for Sansa. She deserved it far more than he. It was only her happiness and joy that could summon his own. Beside her or not, he would accept either outcome, so long as she found her ever after.

 

_ “You don’t speak the words, but I know. You know as well, but you have yet to love yourself, and therefore you cannot accept the love of another. She can teach you. Speak from your heart. Allow yourself to be loved, and she will answer. A Hound howls into the night, does he not? Searching for his brothers and sisters, or perhaps, a mate. Sometimes, wolves call back.”  _

 

Silent tears tracked down Sandor’s face, as he saw the blisters on Sansa’s skin begin to drain. Slowly they faded away, and there was pink and cream replacing scarlet on her chest, in a ring around his hand. 

 

_ “I look at you and I see the boy I’ve always cared for. I know his pain, that you hurt as well, and I offer you the chance to heal. Just as you are healing her, she can mend you. If you let her, she will love you. You  _ are _ worthy.”  _

 

He stood until his knees ached, and then he sat beside Sansa on her pallet, but he didn’t remove his hand from her chest. Love was there, through the endless hours, kissing Sansa’s hair and his own, and then suddenly she was gone. The candles burned themselves out and the oil lamps began to sputter, and still he didn’t leave her. Not until the door splintered, and men took him by the shoulders, did he finally give up his post. There was nothing else that existed but Sansa. No sounds, no thoughts. Only the vision of restored porcelain, parted, full lips, and achingly beautiful breasts that rose with each effortless breath, as they dragged him from the room.

  
  


**************************

 

They put him in the dungeons. It was damp and smelled awful, but there was a wooden bench wide enough for him to sleep on, and someone came twice a day with fresh torches to empty out the bucket he’d been given to piss in. It was far better accommodations than that of his early days with Tywin Lannister. 

 

“What did you do to her?” 

 

First Jon. Then Beric, Thoros and Davos. One-by-one they asked him the same question. 

 

“Clegane, you’ve got to understand the way things look,” Davos spoke as a father would, in an accent bred and born in the gutters. “She’s fine, lad, but you were in there with her for at least an hour. Alone with the Lady of Winterfell, and caught with your hands on her! She should have died. You know that. And now there’s not a mark on her. What happened?” 

 

The same statements came and the same questions were asked. Over and over again, while he ground his teeth and clenched his fists, refusing to speak. _ Fuck them! Fuck all of them _ . There was only one person he would answer to, and if she wouldn't come he’d rot right where he sat. They thought time would be a friend to him, that it would loosen his tongue, but time let fear and anger at Sansa’s actions steep inside him, potent as the fucking tea that had started it all. Each time he grabbed for a ladle of water, the red face of Rage stared back at him. 

 

When no man gained a response from him, they sent Arya. She looked well, with color in her cheeks, and a new set of clothing. Slipping a skin of wine between the bars of his cell, she waited, rocking on her feet. Her hair was pulled back from her face, tied loosely with a leather strip, making her look more like her father, or half-brother, than her sister. 

 

“I could pick the lock, you know,” she said. 

 

“Aye, you could,” Sandor said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’d speak to this wolf, though she wasn’t the right one.  “Leave it. You don’t get to turn the lock.”

 

“You’re being stubborn,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “but if you want to smell like shit and sleep with the rats . . .”

 

Sandor uncorked the wine, nodding his head in thanks. The skin was halfway to his lips, when he paused and set it down. “She’s going to live?” he rasped. “Did she scar?” 

 

“Yes, to the first. No, to the second.” 

 

“She awake?” 

 

“No. What did you do? You have to speak eventually. Jon’s patience is running thin.” 

 

“Made a deal with the Gods.”

 

“What sort of deal?”

 

“Stop sniffing, wolf-bitch,” he growled. She was going too far down a memory he hoped she’d forgotten. 

 

“You told me you should have fucked her. That you should have taken her.” Arya’s eyes were cold as she spoke, but her face relaxed as she continued. “You said she would have been your happy memory. Which is it? Do you love my sister, or do you want her?” 

 

“Both, little wolf, and bugger me for either one.” 

  
  


***************************

 

Sandor blinked awake, catching himself before he slipped off his bench. It might have been the first time he’d drifted off in days. His knuckles brushed against the straw on the floor, and his legs unfolded to stretch out the cramps in his thighs. The rusted hinges of the dungeon’s door creaked open, and he sat up with haste. The two torches he was allowed were dim, slowly dying, and he held a hand up to eyes to block the glowing light from the doorframe. 

 

Sansa closed the door behind her, a set of keys clinking against her hip as she took the steps two at a time, down to the cell that held him. The bench toppled behind him as he hurried to the door of his cell. Each of them clasped the bars between them, though they didn’t touch one another. His grip should have bent them, as his chest heaved, taking in the sight of her. 

 

There she was! Standing before him as if nothing had happened, with a playful smile on her lips! Wrapped in a dressing robe of ruby that set her hair aflame, she seemed in good health. Her eyes were clear, glistening ice, framed by thick lashes that tilted up to meet his scowl. 

 

“I took the keys,” she said. “They didn’t want me to come but I-”

 

”Moon tea!” he spat at her. “Fucking moon tea! I told you! _ I told you! _ ” 

 

Her smile vanished, snuffed out completely by his attack. A hint of water collected in her eyes, and her bottom lip trembled, but he was undeterred and felt no pity for her. Was she frightened? Good! She could know his terror for a time! 

 

“I gave you a choice,” Sandor snarled, baring his teeth, “and you wanted to be rid of it instead of claiming it as mine! You almost  _ died _ ! You could have told me to fuck off!” He shook the bars and then froze when she placed her hands over his. They tingled, like they’d been asleep, waiting on her to revive them. 

 

“That’s not true,” she said, shaking her head. “It was Vara. She came to me. I told her I’d been sick in the mornings and she said she’d make me a tea to take at night. It would settle my stomach, she said, and in the morning I’d feel better.” 

 

He wrenched his hands out from under hers, roaring in absolute fury. “WHERE IS SHE!? LET ME OUT OF HERE!”  

 

“Please!” Sansa cried. “I’ve told Jon already. He sent a search party after her. She’s not in the camp any longer.” 

 

“She’s dead,” Sandor shouted, already thinking of what death would suit the wildling bitch best as he tore the small cell apart, breaking buckets against the walls and kicking at the overturned bench. “When I find her, she’s dead!” 

 

“I know,” Sansa said, a strange emotion Sandor couldn’t place making her brow wrinkle. “You’ll go after her for me. But later, not now. There is something more important.”

 

“Not bloody likely.” He was breathless, his stamina spent. Inside and out he was exhausted, days of exertion catching up to him, as he slumped against a wall of the cell, slipping down until he sat, knees drawn up to his chest, his palms resting upwards on top of them.  

 

The sound of a lock turning caught his attention. “Wouldn’t do that,” he warned. 

 

Sansa left the door wide open as she stepped through and approached him. She was cautious and careful with her movements, though her stance was determined and her eyes fierce, almost tiptoeing to his side and sinking down next to him in the straw. Sitting back on her heels, Sansa reached out for his scarred cheek, but he flinched before she could make contact, and she hesitated, dropping her hand back to her lap. 

 

“Did you think that I would rather die than have you?”

 

His heart stopped and his breath caught in his throat. For several beats he felt nothing, and then it started again, slamming against his ribcage. How could she know that? She looked at him in a way no woman ever had, cutting him right down to the quick. Something like kindness and sadness, all bound together, radiated from her features. He was silent, watching the wall behind her, unable to bare looking into her eyes any longer. 

 

“You did, didn’t you?” she whispered. She worked the knot loose on her robe, and pulled back the collar to reveal a white sleeping gown, and try as he might, Sandor couldn’t take his eyes off the flowered stitching at the neckline. It wasn’t until her nimble fingers began to unlace the ties of her gown, that he averted his eyes. 

 

_ What in the bloody fuck was she doing!? _

 

“They say I should have died,” she spoke, taking his right hand and guiding it to her. “I should never have woken, and if I did, I should have looked like one of the Stone Men.”

 

“But I didn’t die. Every scar is gone. _ All  _ of them. Even the ones from before. Everything except this,” she used his hand to push at the fabric of her gown until the tops of her breasts were free. And there, in a light shade of rose, was the shape of a hand.  _ His _ hand. There was no denying the massive mark on her skin could only have been made by him. His thumbprint settled between both her breasts, and the shape of his palm spanned the skin of her left. She placed his entire hand over the mark, and held fast to his wrist.

 

The was no pain. Not one twinge or spark of it. Sansa's skin was soft as any fine leather, tanned to sensual suppleness. 

 

“You did this,” she pressed him harder to her, “why?”

 

_ Don’t make me say it. That I wanted you safe and whole more than I wanted a face, or a normal life, or a chance at having you. _

 

“Does it matter?” he rasped, losing himself to a crashing wave of possessiveness. He’d marked her! He hadn’t meant to, but now he was a part of her forever.  _ His.  _

 

“It matters,” Sansa said, in a regal tone. “This isn’t nothing. Something happened while I slept. Tell me.” 

 

“I was owed a boon. I gave it to you.”

 

“What was the boon, Sandor?” she asked, moving her head so that he was forced to look at her. “No half-stories. No lies. Stop running from me. I want the truth.” 

 

“She said she’d give me back a face,” he growled, angry at himself for letting the words tumble out of him, though he couldn't seem to make them stop. ”If I put one of you Starks in Winterfell she said she could take it away. Starks for scars. You needed it more than I did.” 

 

Keeping his hand against her, Sansa’s mouth opened, as if she would speak, but only wet, short breaths came out. And suddenly she was rushing towards him, her lips crashing into his, while she cried. Not once, but many times, she pressed her lips firmly to his, willing him to understand something he had no knowledge of. 

 

The purest moment of his life was caged inside of rusted iron bars. The floor stank -the straw beneath them was half rotted- and she kissed him amid the squalor, ignoring the rank mix of sweat and blood on him. And it was  _ perfect _ . His free hand made a fist so tight his entire arm shook. There must have been something left of his heart because it skipped within his ribcage. She’s only thanking you, he told himself, as she continued her sweet assault.  _ It’s gratitude speaking for her, not love, not feelings.  _

 

Though he said nothing, she must have heard him. Her kisses stopped and she shifted, nuzzling her cheek against his scars and he forgot to draw his next few breaths. _ This _ was the act meant to convey her gratitude. Not her kiss. The kisses were freely given; this was a Lady thanking her Knight by sharing with him the very thing he had saved. Her beauty was smooth and unmarred against his own ragged skin that would never have a chance at being restored now. 

 

“The stories must be true,” she whispered into his sorry excuse of an ear. “There’s still one Knight left.”

 

The room went blurry and he felt like weeping. When Sansa pulled back from him, she used a thumb to wipe beneath his eye and he knew he’d lost the battle. His world was a window with a sheet of rain pouring over it, but he had enough sense to feel her climb into his lap and realize the wetness trickling down into his beard, wasn’t his alone. All his fear -the terror she’d put there- flowed outward to mix with her own understanding.  

 

Love’s kiss had been a single grain on a stalk of wheat, but Sansa’s touch was the field; a pool of amber surrounding him and spreading off to the horizon as far as his eye could see. There was a limitless, bountiful harvest before him, and it seemed impossible that he should be the one to receive it, but he wanted it all the same. He was starving and she was all that could sustain him.

 

He _ loved _ her.

 

“I’m sorry,” she crooned. Over and over again, she soothed him, smashing all the jars that held his blackened heart, his passions and his yearnings. Every lost piece of him, she awoke and returned to him, and it had been so long since he’d acknowledged any of them that he was overwhelmed completely. He wasn’t aware of when she let go of his wrist, or when he moved his hand from the mark that proved his devotion to her, until he felt silk in his hands and realized he’d let his fingers twine through her hair. 

 

_ No pain. There’s no pain. She kissed the beast and must feel something!  _

 

Gripping the back of Sansa’s head, Sandor was all power and might now that he knew the Lady’s curse had been lifted. It was his turn to claim, his time to declare through touch what he desired. She let him take his fill of her, parting her lips so that he could taste her fully. She was the first heavenly sip of wine on a thirsting tongue, and the last drop of the bottle, leaving him wanting for more. It was long minutes before he let her break free of him, ending their bliss. Her hair was mussed, her cheeks red with color and he wanted her all the more. 

 

Catching her breath, Sansa smiled at him and, after placing one final kiss to his jaw, she crawled out of his lap. She offered him both her hands, just as Love had done. “Come with me,” she bid him. “You don’t belong here.”

 

****************************************************************

 

Sansa led him out of the dungeons, through a hall and up another flight of stairs. The next level was humid, the slight rise in temperature felt boiling to Sandor after being enclosed by cold stone for so long. Sansa opened a door, and a cloud of steam that smelled of streambanks and wet rocks washed over the two of them. 

 

“Hot springs,” Sansa explained. When he didn’t move, she gave him a light push over the threshold. “Go on. Take your time. I’ll come back later.” 

 

Rocks had been chiseled away, near the walls, and sunken craters were filled with water that heated the entire room.  He stood rooted in place, watching the closed door and wondering if it had all been a fantasy. Was he still asleep on the bench? Had Arya drugged the wine?

 

Forcing his feet to move, Sandor dipped a hand into the water, and glorious, liquid warmth greeted his fingertips. Pulling his stained and stinking tunic over his head, Sandor glanced at the four copper tubs around the room in addition to the stone baths. An unwanted vision of himself and Vara, fucking in the cold river near their lost community, came to him. He grimaced, and made for a wooden bucket to fill a tub, rather than bathe immediately.

 

When his bones finally settled within a tub, he let out a sigh. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the pleasure of a warm bath. Tilting his head back, he let the water do its work, and tried his best to relax. He was almost asleep, when he heard a knock. Reaching to the floor, he found one of his boots and hurled it at the door. 

 

“Are you bathing?” a woman’s voice chirped.

 

Sansa was back! He thought she meant to seek him out later in the day -or night, his sense of time was off- not within the hour while he sat naked in a tub. 

 

“Sandor?”

 

“Aye?”

 

The door inched open, a slippered foot peeking through the slight gap first. Her head followed, shyly emerging from around the warped and cracked wood of the door. She darted a quick glance his way, and seeing him half submerged, smiled and entered the room fully. In her arms were folded clothing, and resting precariously on top of that was a large plate piled high with food. Chicken, blackberries, honeycomb. Fried liver and cheese and bread with butter -he could smell it all and his stomach groaned. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t fed him over the last few days, but the portions had been meager and infrequent as they all fretted over Sansa and forgot about him. 

 

Somehow she’d managed to balance a handled horn of ale in the center of the plate. She placed it all on a chair and then dragged it over to his side by the tub. There was a memory in her eyes as she rubbed the cuff of the dull blue shirt within the pile. 

 

“You used to wear blue,” she murmered. 

 

Reaching past her, he made for the meat first and spent several minutes stuffing his cheeks and chewing before answering her. “So did you,” he said, with a swallow. “Purple too.You don't look right in black. Go back to blue.” 

 

She stared at him, working something out in her mind. “Was that your way of saying you find me pretty?” 

 

He went for the ale next, without answering her, taking down half of it before he came back up to breathe, using the back of his hand to wipe the foam from his whiskers. 

 

_ Did he find her pretty? No, she was beautiful, and she ought to know by now that he and half of Westeros thought so as well.  _

 

In the midst of his thoughts, and with food and drink to keep him occupied, he paid little attention to the sound of trickling water. It wasn’t until he felt the rag on his back that he jerked to a halt halfway through the action of reaching for more food. 

 

She was behind him. She was  _ washing _ him. 

 

“Don’t stop on my account,” Sansa urged. “You must be starving.”

 

It was too late. The meat was no longer moist, but dry as withered parchment. The ale he gulped to try and wash it down with turned sour on his tongue. He fumbled with the cup, trying to set it back on his plate and missed, but her hand was there to catch it and set it on the floor. 

 

There was a horrible tightness at the back of his throat. A woman of both strength and gentleness kneeled for him; a Lady tended to the Knight she had claimed. Somewhere inside him, the boy, that had once dreamed of this moment, cautiously moved from the shadowed corner he’d been hiding in. 

 

“Why?” Sandor asked, hating the catch in his voice. 

 

Her movements stalled, then started again. “You’ve been watching over others all your life. It’s time someone started looking after you.”

 

“Didn’t do it for that. You don’t owe me.” 

 

“Do you remember the walkway? At the Red Keep? When Joffrey made me look at my father, up on that pike?” 

 

“I remember.”

 

“I was so angry at you. I wanted to kill him in that moment, and you knew it, and you took that from me! But you cleaned my face and for the first time I saw something in your eyes that wasn’t hate.” 

 

“Had a duty. It would have been my head as well, if I’d let you do it.” 

 

“Yes, but it wasn’t _ only  _ duty, was it?”

 

He took in a great lungful of air, ready to deny her, and stopped. An hour ago he’d sobbed like a boy in her arms. What was the point in hiding from her any longer?

 

“No,” he said, quietly.  

 

“You protected me. You lied for me. You _ killed  _ for me. After the riot-”

 

“Aye, and what fucking good did that do?” he barked. Anger still seethed within him when he thought on all he’d done to save her virtue, only to have it taken from her in the end. 

 

“I chose not to go with you. That is my regret to live with. You can’t save me from everything.” There was the sensation of slight pressure at his temple where she touched his scars briefly before retreating. “But you  _ did _ save me from something I can only try and imagine.” 

 

“This,” -out of the corner of his eye, Sandor caught the flutter of her hand, moving back and forth between the two of them - “isn’t about owing. It’s not an exchange. Whatever is here you created, one deed at a time. If I care for you, it’s because you cared first.” 

 

“Do you?”

 

“Of course I do.” Her hand was on his shoulder, featherlight and cool against his skin. “Why did you come here? Why did you come to Winterfell?” she said. It was the same question she’d been asking since they were reunited.  

 

He didn’t have words for her. No sonnets or poems or stories. How was a man to say that she was life itself? She was a boy’s wish and a man’s hope. Instead of answering her, he dared to put his hand over hers, then tucked his head and drew her knuckles to his lips.

 


	16. First Things First (I'ma Say All The Words Inside My Head)

That first night, after their confessions both voiced and silent, the kisses and hesitant touches, they shared a bed. And though it wasn’t in a way he’d ever lain with a woman before, it was a night Sandor would always remember. 

 

Sansa left him, running his empty plate and cup to the kitchens as he dressed, but she was outside the door when he emerged. The long soak in his tub, the hearty food and strong ale, and days of self-imposed sleep deprivation left him braced against a stone wall trying to stay awake and focused. And in addition to all of that there was a warm feeling in his chest, seeing her look up at him, that left him more dazed and dizzy than any bottle ever had. 

 

She took his hand, lacing her fingers between his own, and something strange and wonderful clenched inside him. Leading him gently and walking slowly, she spoke of Jon -of explanations and the story she’d woven for him and the others, not quite the truth, and yet not a lie either- and Sandor’s mind registered only half of what she said. But somewhere in all of it he heard that both Arya and Sansa said words in his favor and Jon had listened. Sandor had been given a second chance, a room, another day to prove his loyalty to the Stark name and thanks as well. 

 

His room was spacious, with a large, canopied bed suitable for his frame stuck right in the middle. The furnishings had been painted black or gray, with white trimmings and silver handles. Stark colors, simple and striking.  

 

Except for the bed. Someone had already turned it down and the furs were pulled back to reveal sheets the shade of golden wine. 

 

Yellow. His color surrounded by hers. The new, strange feeling in Sandor’s chest bloomed once again.  

 

They leaned into opposite sides of the doorframe, facing one another, each one aware there was a road ahead that they might travel together. It had once been blocked, and now it was clear. There was a destination to reach, but neither of them knew the best route to take. He thought about another kiss, but before he could move she was sliding past him, into the room. At his bedside she stopped, gathering all the pillows except one into a pile of fine cotton and feathers against the headboard. Then she plopped herself down in her nest, crossing her legs in a childlike manner and drawing the last pillow onto her lap. 

 

He objected. He protested. Of course he did. Though he thought he had it right and understood she wasn’t after  _ that _ , he was suddenly struck with the fear that perhaps she was. And it was far too soon to entertain thoughts of that sort, and she couldn’t be fully healed yet, and yes, he harbored feelings for her that were far from knightly, but it was  _ Sansa _ , and she deserved better than him. And besides, he was too bloody _ tired. _

 

“No,” he rumbled, pointing out into the cold hallway. “Go on. Your brother  _ would _ hang me this time.” 

 

“Jon can think what he likes,” she said, shifting her hips to sink deeper into the mattress. “He’s not my father and I’m a woman grown.” She patted the pillow in her lap. “I’m not leaving, and you need sleep. You look dead on your feet.” 

 

He had nothing left in him. Not one scrap or spoonful of energy to fight her. If he’d been a lamb she could have led him to the slaughterhouse and he would have followed without complaint or hesitation. He sighed and shut the door, though he didn’t set the bolts, and shuffled to the bed, collapsing onto the down mattress beside her. 

 

“Boots,” she chided, and he chuckled, but kicked them off. 

 

His arm rested over his eyes and he finally gave them permission to close. Sansa cleared her throat and when he looked at her with one bleary eye, she patted the pillow once again. 

 

“Please,” she said. One word and she had him. Just one was all it took for him to roll over until he was laying where she wanted; on his side, with only a bit of fluff and cloth keeping all of her from him. 

 

It was beyond any of his experiences. Aside from his first time, he’d never fallen asleep with a woman, and those girls from his youth didn’t count in his mind. He hadn’t loved them, and they sure as hell hadn’t felt anything for him but the thrill that the weight of his gold in their hands could bring.   

 

Surrounded by softness and a heady mix of scents wafting from Sansa, Sandor was both comfortable and uneasy. There was no point of reference to guide him through whatever it was Sansa wanted to share with him. There was no star in the sky of his memories that might lead him. There was only her. 

 

He felt Sansa relax and lean back into her mountain of pillows, as he tried to match his breathing to hers. Calm and slow. In and out. She let minutes go by like that, before she placed a hand on his head, barely touching him, and instead of flinching, he relented. He might have mumbled a drowsy “little bird” which she answered with a content, wordless murmur.  Keeping his eyes closed, Sandor clutched at Sansa’s leg as he would another pillow. One hand above and one below. Knee and a bit of covered thigh and nothing more he touched, as she lightly stroked his hair. 

 

She hummed a tune as he drifted off. Farther and farther away on a ship of hope, the waves of her song rocked him towards a future that, until this moment, he had always assumed would never come to pass. He’d heard the song before at King’s Landing. Some hymn the Ladies of the court would sing. Something about laying down swords and taming the raging souls of soldiers.  His last thought was knowing he’d never give in to the first part of the song, but with Sansa by his side and with more nights like these, the second might be possible. 

 

He dreamt of orchards that night. Of trees so heavy with oranges and lemons that the limbs drooped towards the ground. Amidst the tantalizing smells, birds chirped and warbled, while the rays of a summer sun beat down on him. Sansa was there in a tree, laughing and calling to him to catch her. He did so and the kiss she rewarded him with was what he imagined belonging felt like. 

 

In the morning, he woke first to discover they hadn’t moved in the night. They were still touching, still connected. Sansa’s hand squeezed every few moments, tangled in his hair as she slept; a pulse of something newly created beating for the both of them. Reluctantly, he stretched, which woke Sansa, and he sent her off to her own rooms but not before she could place a last kiss on his scarred cheek. Sitting on the bed, he rubbed a palm over the residual heat left from their bodies, then touched the spot she had kissed. He knew he was awake, but it felt as if he were dreaming. 

 

She let him sleep on his own after that, though she often knocked at his door in the morning or asked him to sit with her in the library in the evening. Not a day went by that she didn’t seek out his company and he basked in the light of her attentions. The Lady had given him ten years back, and Sansa gave him ten more. He felt younger than he had when he had actually  _ been _ young. 

 

By firelight they shared kisses. Some fierce and some tender, some fumbling and others sure, and each one left a mark deep inside him. They made him remember that there was still more to him than blood and wine, that there was something out there beyond coin and flesh. It felt ancient and secret, on the verge of mythical, like dragons. But dragons were once again real, weren’t they? 

 

When they walked the grounds together, Sansa stood close enough for their arms to brush one another and the quiet bond between them grew. He wanted her, but he’d be damned if he was going to knock on a Lady’s door when she’d already given far more than he could have ever asked for. If she wanted the same as he did, she knew where to find him. Though he missed her scent beneath him, he knew if it was only ever that one night they shared he could die in peace with his happy memory. 

 

They wrapped themselves up in their own private fairytale, forgetting, or perhaps ignoring the past and the world carried on around them. Memories gnawed at Sandor’s conscious. A Direwolf put down by order of his former master. Eddard Stark’s blood dripping onto his boots as he held the Lord’s head high so the mob at the Sept’s steps could see exactly what happened to so-called traitors. The word “enough” on the tip of his tongue that was never spoken aloud. A harrowing night full of fire and wine. He’d abandoned her, he’d had a hand in the torture that had been her life in King’s Landing, and yet she still stood next to him.  

Lady Stoneheart had vanished. Whether from anger at Sandor’s actions, or Sansa’s ability to break the curse that had been set upon him, Sandor didn’t know and didn’t care. He knew she wasn’t gone forever, but he’d gladly run free for a time without a leash.  

 

Jon made plans to leave for Dragonstone, to beseech the Mother of Dragons, newly returned to her home. He believed an alliance would create a force that neither the Lannisters nor White Walkers could withstand. Arya took Rickon under her wing, coaxing the nervous lad back to something like his normal self, according to Sansa. 

 

And Sansa? Sansa smiled. Truly smiled. She stopped drinking tea of any kind, but there was a light in her eyes Sandor hadn’t seen since she was girl. It filled him with a sense of pride, though he knew it was selfish of him to do so. He never found the courage to apologize for the past, and in doing so he knew he was robbing her of the chance to decide if she could accept all of him. One selfless act didn't seem enough in his mind to absolve all his sins against her and her family.  Everytime he thought the moment right, she’d look at him with trust in her eyes or kiss his scars, and each act was a log damming the river of words within him. Though she called him a Knight, Sandor was certain Sansa had forgotten it was a dark Knight she’d given her heart away to, and it was his duty to remind her. 

 

He should have put an end to it, and in the past he would have, but things had changed.  _ He’d  _ changed. The man that he once was in King’s Landing screamed inside his head.  _ The stories aren’t real! How many times did you try to make her understand? And you’ve fallen right in line with her. _  But it was too much to ask of a man who’d been denied any trace of love all his life. It was as if he were a child, never allowed anything sweet -cakes or pies or sugar and honey- and now he’d been given the keys to a baker’s pantry. How was he to stop himself from gorging on his new find? Even if it made him sick in the end, he’d deal with the mess then and there. For now, if Sansa was going to keep on feeding him, he was going to keep on eating. 

 

Some days it felt as if he were back in the community, with Ray and Emma and the babes. But Sandor knew better than to trust the lull in action. If there was one thing the Others had taught him, it was balance. Life might settle for a time, but there was always a storm to follow. A life of tranquility was not a luxury afforded to men like him and he’d never let his guard down as he once had. Perfect and beautiful as the dream was, Sandor knew, one day, they would both have to wake. He kept his sword sharp and waited. 

  
  


*******************************

 

_ It was the weather of the West, of home, before he knew what bone numbing coldness was. Not as warm as the South, but not as brutal as the North. This was the land of his father’s father, the land of all the Cleganes before him. Rocky, hard, and unyielding. Land that bore meat and pelts, tallow and ash, not fruit or grain. This was Sandor’s past.  _

 

_ Except -Sandor shifted through memories- his father would have never stepped foot here, to this particular patch of land on the border of his childhood home. His father hated the water. It was Sandor’s mother that had introduced him to the sea. _

 

_ Sandor peered out over the cliff’s edge, wind whipping his hair into his eyes. Waves of foaming white crashed onto the pebbled shore hundreds of yards below his feet. He breathed deeply, the sweet smell of raw brine filling his nose.  _

 

_ Aye, this was home.  _

 

_ But it was different.  _

 

_ Salt and fish, earth and gulls. And beyond that, in the tall grasses and dark forests, he could sense lions and shadowcats pacing, stirring up clouds of dirt with their paws. That was right. It was all in place. The citrus though, and the rose. They didn’t belong.  _

 

_ A hand landed on his wrist, startling him. “There you are!” Sansa cried, evidently pleased to have found him, “I’ve been looking for you.” Bundled within a cape of yellow, she smiled at him and pulled at his collar until he bent to meet her lips. “Come in where it’s warmer,” she whispered.  _

 

_ Over her shoulder, Sandor saw a cabin, wooden and rustic with a thatched roof and smoke trailing from a single chimney. And, suddenly, a gale swept both he and Sansa inside. She laughed while he stumbled to catch his footing. _

 

_ It  _ was _ warmer, as promised. His fingers and toes stung from the heat of the room as he shook free of his cloak. He circled, taking in the grated hearth and the table covered with bowls and platters filled with sticky fruits, braised quarters of rabbit, and rolls with crackling crusts. The floors were covered in furs; yellows, tans and reds that matched the cedar and pine furnishings. If he had ever had the time to build it, if life had sent him down a different path, this would have been the home his hands created.  _

 

_ He turned to face Sansa and gasped. She had stripped herself bare while he’d been staring at the walls! His eyes roamed over every bit of her, trying to take in all she was offering and she smiled brightly, taking his surprise for hesitation. Stepping towards him, she grabbed his hand. Her eyes were alight with desire as she settled it between her legs. “Come in where it’s warmer,” she said again, the passion in her words drawing a growl from Sandor.  _

 

_ Like the wind before, there was a rush of sound and sensations, and Sandor found himself lying on their bed, naked as well. Hard to the point of pain and aching with the need to release. Sansa straddled his hips and though he’d only found himself in this particular part of his dreams a handful of times, he knew this moment well. When she took him, his hips bucked from the bed, trying to sheath every last inch of him inside her as he struggled against the explosion building within him. It was always too soon that it ended. He shut his eyes and clenched his jaw, knowing what rapture was about to be his.  _

 

_ He inhaled. And nearly gagged. Sansa’s scent was gone. Instead, years of filth and rot assaulted his nose. In a panic, Sandor’s eyes snapped open and The Lady grinned down at him, her naked breasts green with decay and oozing pus that reeked of spoiled milk onto his chest.  _

 

Sandor wretched his eyes open for a second time, awake and with a scream caught in his throat. His heart was at a gallop but there was no time to recover. The Lady was still above him, dressed, thank the Gods, but pinning him down with his ribs between her legs and his arms held at either side of his head by her hands. 

 

“ _ I see all _ ,” she hissed, striking him across a cheek. “ _ I told you, you are mine! Not hers! You will serve me, as you swore to do. This is not for you and her _ ,” she said, grinding against Sandor’s hips and his flesh that was still stiff, but rapidly draining. “ _ I’ve found the last Stark. I can sense him. Smell him. And you will go after him. Now _ .” 

 

The weight and strength of her was like Gregor’s, but with an arm now free, Sandor was able to land a blow to her jaw, sending her toppling to the floor. Head bent low with brittle hair blocking her face, The Lady began to laugh. Low chuckles soon became laughter as loud and crazed as a mad woman’s, and a terrible weight settled in the pit of Sandor’s stomach. He scrambled across the room for his sword but stopped dead in his tracks, no more than a few paces from the bed, falling face first to the floor. The taste of blood filled his mouth from a lip torn between his teeth. 

 

From under the bed, The Lady’s hands gripped Sandor’s ankle, while Sandor rolled onto his back. The sight of her, hauling herself from the dark shadows beneath his bed, was something straight out of any child’s nightmares. The Lady looked more corpse-like than ever, her pale flesh sagging over nothing but bones. Sandor tried to kick free of her, but for all his power and strength, it was The Lady that had gifted him; she was his creator and had been clever enough to keep her pet weaker than herself. 

 

She crawled over him, twitching and jerking, her palms and knees creating unbearable pressure points of pain along Sandor’s body. The bones in his legs threatened to break all over again and when she reached his groin he cried out, trying to stretch for his sword and failing. When she reached his chest, Sandor heard a loud snap and cursed as one of his ribs cracked. Blindly he reached above him, to a small table that held cutlery and bits of food leftover from the past day. His hand closed over the handle of a cheese knife and with a roar, he plunged it straight into one of her murky blue eyes.

 

All the demons and Hellhounds that roamed the underworld couldn’t have matched her screech of fury. It didn’t sound like one single voice screaming; there were many, multiple, uncountable tones that spewed from her mouth, creating a force that sent Sandor across the room until he hit a wall. She threw herself back, howling out curses and pawing at the blade sunk within her face. A few seconds was all it took for her to pull the knife free, taking the eye with it, but it was all Sandor needed to reach his sword. He turned to face her, ready to strike and The Lady shouted. 

 

“ _ ENOUGH! _ ” she commanded, lifting a palm in Sandor’s direction. Sandor froze in place, back against the wall and unable to move. There was nothing to fight, nothing to struggle against. There was no feeling of being bound or held down; his body simply didn’t obey the orders he gave it any longer. He could breathe and blink, snarl and spit, and that was all. His sword was still in his hand but his arm wouldn’t rise. He was useless,  _ powerless _ . He’d read accounts of creatures over the great sea; snakes and scorpions whose bite or sting could leave a man in such a state, trapped in his own mind with all his senses working, but with movement impossible. The Lady had done this to him with a mere flick of her wrist!

 

“Fucking cunt coward,” he growled, as she approached him, the crumbling leather of once delicate shoes causing her toes to scrape against the floorboards. She was floating now, not walking. 

 

“ _ You will be silent! _ ” she said, taking his hair within both her fists, “ _ You will remember your place! _ ”

 

Sandor felt his body lift, felt the force of her hurling him to the ground and waited for the impending moment when he would crash into solid wood. Time slowed and faltered as he fell -as he kept falling- deeper and deeper until the room Sansa had given him no longer existed. 

 

He landed in Hell.  _ His _ Hell. The one he had tried all his life to bury, cut down, or destroy and when all those failed him, he fought or fucked, drank or ran. His flesh was on fire and he screamed as hot piss ran down his leg. The hair caught first, flames instantly drinking in his fine, dry locks and then his skin began to cook and his face became a torch of agony.  _ He couldn’t move! _ He begged for mercy while his skin sizzled and his ear began to melt away. It wouldn’t stop! There was nothing but pain and terror, his babbling cries and  _ the smell,  _ and it stretched onward and forward with no end, while both a man and woman’s voice laughed. 

 

“Please,” he sobbed, air like dragon’s fire filling his lungs, “please, please.”

 

The vision tilted and he was back in his chamber at Winterfell, not the drawing room of Clegane’s Keep. There wasn’t a fire anymore but that didn’t stop his face from experiencing his past over and over again. And the smell! That hadn’t left as well. The scent of some stranger's flesh burning was bad enough, but to know it was his own that was frying, the fat and muscle bubbling away just like an animal’s over the spit . . .

 

Sandor’s mouth filled with bile and chunks of last night’s supper, and he probably would have choked to death if The Lady hadn’t kicked him onto his side. He wept into the sheepskin rug beneath him. He still couldn’t move and his face was still  _ burning _ . 

 

The Lady crouched beside him. “ _ I could leave you here, like this,” she said. “I could leave you locked up in your mind, in that space in time forever, until you’re nothing but a lunatic, covered in filth. _ ” 

 

She touched his shoulder fondly. “ _ But that’s not what I want. I want you to do all that you were made to do. Stop fighting me. Do as you're told. Yes? _ ” 

 

“Y-yes,” he coughed. “Aye.” He’d say anything -do or promise anything she liked- if it would make the memory and the pain stop. War wounds he could endure. Sneers and jests and pitiful glances his way he could swallow, but not  _ this _ . Shuddering, Sandor let tears of relief fall when cool, winter air brushed his cheek. He was weak as a newborn fawn, his limbs heavy and not yet ready to support his weight as he struggled to move. He gasped for air instead. 

 

“ _ Good _ ,” The Lady cooed, combing his hair with fingers that no longer had nails. “ _ That’s very good. Breathe. It will pass. You will leave at dawn. Pack provisions for a fortnight and head North of the Wall. Take Beric and his lot if it pleases you. We can use them to _ -” 

 

“Get away from him!” Sandor heard a voice shout.  A familiar, feminine voice.

 

_ Gods, no. No, no, no! _

 

Sansa stood a few steps inside his room, a fire poker raised and held close to her body. Sandor’s vision was blurry, but he was sure it was her. The Lady rose and shifted her attention from Sandor to the new arrival. 

 

“San. . .don’t . . .,” Sandor croaked, his voice paper-thin as he hacked and spat on the floor, the last of the sick and mucus clearing from his throat. “Go. Leave.” 

 

“What did you do to him?” Sansa cried, her weapon lowering as The Lady stepped closer, and for a moment they each stared at one another. “Mother?” Sansa whispered. “Cat?” 

 

His vision clearing, Sandor saw each woman in profile. Each the same height, each with copper hair. One shining with life and blue eyes bright with tears, and one fading away to death’s embrace, hatred burning in the one orb she had left. 

 

“ _ Don’t ever call me that! _ ” The Lady shouted, taking the poker from Sansa’s limp hold and letting it clatter to the floor. “ _ Never speak of that name! _ ” 

 

“Mother, please,” Sansa tried again, as Sandor concentrated, striving to make it onto his hands and knees, “it’s me, Sansa.” 

 

“ _ I know who you are, girl _ ,” The Lady answered, disgust making her lip curl. “ _ You’re Stark blood. The most noble blood of the land, and if it weren’t so I would kill you for daring to turn my sword against me. Thousands of lifetimes it’s taken to produce your line, and you’re consorting with  _ that!” -The Lady pointed a crooked finger in Sandor’s direction-  “ _ That is an animal! A dog! He is not fit for you or your house. _ ” 

 

“But,” Sansa sniffed, her trembling voice close to what Sandor knew to be tears, “he could be.” 

 

“ _ He is not! _ ” The Lady roared, and Sansa cringed in fear, her dead mother’s face inches from her own. “ _ He is mine! In your world he is nothing. But in mine he is royalty. He is the son of Vengeance, a Lord of Darkness _ .” 

 

Sansa shook her head, casting a sorrowful look towards Sandor as she silently wept. “You’re wrong.” 

 

“ _ Time will tell, Lady Stark. You have not yet begun to see what he is capable of. He will slaughter Humanity . He will destroy Innocence. In this life, and the one that follows, he is bound to Evil. He will cut his teeth in your world and when he passes, he will end the age of Good in my realm. Each day, he is more dark than light and you will lose this battle. _ ”

 

The Lady cackled, placing a hand low on Sansa’s belly. “ _ Love has infected you both, and I have no more time to waste on either of you _ .” Sandor managed to haul himself up using the back of a chair, his legs trying desperately to support his weight, his breathing as hard and fast as if he’d just tried to keep pace with his horse, but he was too late. 

 

Sansa let out a startled whine as The Lady continued, rubbing her palm over Sansa’s woolen dress. “ _ Listen well, daughter of wolves. You can lie with him all you like, but his seed will not take root inside you. There will be no sons or daughters. I have seen the days to come. Arya will not take a man. Jon is not a Stark, Bran is broken and Rickon will bear no sons. Without you, your line will die. Take the Hound as your partner and both your houses will turn to ash. There will be nothing to show for your pathetic love. That is the future I give to you. _ ” 

 

The Lady gave Sansa a tilt of her head and made for the door, calling over her shoulder. “ _ Remember your task, my sword. Tomorrow, you ride _ .” 

 

And then she was gone, blending into shadows and leaving Sandor’s line of sight. Sansa crumpled in on herself, sobbing and clutching her belly, and finally,  _ finally _ , Sandor’s body began to move, though it felt as if there was a tide working against him. He should have gone to Sansa first, but instinct urged him towards the lingering threat of danger and he found himself running towards the hall outside his door, searching for The Lady and finding nothing but an empty corridor. Another harsh sob from Sansa drew him back to her side and he knelt by her, trying to find the source of her pain. 

 

“Let me see,” he barked, prying her hands away and meeting resistance. “Sansa, let me see!” He checked for any sign of blood on her skin, on her clothing and the wood around her. He’d been through this fear already, and could feel it double within him thinking she might be mortally injured again, but Sansa seemed intact, though she trembled. 

 

“Where?” he asked, more rasp in his voice than he cared for. 

 

Sansa’s sobs had quieted, though her eyes were tightly squeezed shut and her breath came out in labored pants behind clenched teeth.  “It’s _ cold _ ,” she said, placing a hand over top of where his rested, where a babe would grow. Her dress and hair quivered from her shaking. 

 

Despite the flecks of vomit that stained his shirt, Sandor scooped her up into his arms, and made it unsteadily to his bed. At least the piss had been a part of his vision only, he thought, small mercy that it was. He wrapped her in every fur and scrap of linen he could find, and when her shivering continued, he held her as close as he dared, willing his body heat into her quaking form.  

 

There was no other way he knew to comfort her, drawing her onto his lap and rubbing her back roughly to try and warm her. She tucked her head beneath his chin and made herself as small as possible. Long moments passed before her shakes subsided to trembling once again, and then she was still. Neither one of them spoke or moved, not wanting to give life to The Lady’s curse upon Sansa. If they stated it, or acknowledged it, it would have to be true. 

 

She was braver than he, but her voice shook as she spoke. “Do you think that I’m barren? Can she do that?” Sansa meet his eyes, and what he saw there made him want to curse and scream and break every bone in The Lady’s body until he found some way to hurt her just as much as she had hurt Sansa.  

 

The light was gone. The precious sparkle within her eyes that had recently been rediscovered was gone. Crushed, Smashed. Gone. All that was left was misery. Fat tears collected in her eyes, but didn’t fall. “Sandor?” she pleaded. 

 

_ Fuck him, but he wanted to lie to her. _

 

But he knew The Lady. He’d heard her well enough. The Lady didn’t lie. She’d made the rules clear. 

 

“She said me, little bird,” he rumbled, thinking Sansa would understand. But her look of confusion told him she didn’t understand at all. “Choose someone else. Make sons with them,” he said bluntly.  

 

That wasn’t so terrible, was it? She could still have children, just not with  _ him _ . Sandor found that he was now the one confused as Sansa broke down against his chest. It wasn’t as if they would have actually married. Would they? What nonsense had she been thinking would happen between the two of them?

 

“Sansa,” he sighed, setting her back so he could look at her. “It was a dream. A  _ good _ dream, aye, but you know she speaks true. Children? With me? Is that what you’re after?” 

 

“I wanted the choice!” she wailed, jumping to her feet and backing away from him. Furs flew as she raged. “I don’t know if it was going to be you! It could have been! Maybe! I don’t know! But she took the chance from me. They’ve all taken from me. Joffrey, Baelish, Ramsay, all of them! There was never a choice! I never got to decide!” She fell forward, into his arms as he stood, and he worried she’d faint if she didn’t stop crying so passionately. 

 

“I wanted a choice,” she wept, and Sandor felt as if it were his own heart breaking, not hers. “I wanted  _ you _ to be my choice.” 

 

Sandor rubbed his scars against her hair, remembering a time when he had no choice. He thought of all the choices that had passed him by because of one act years ago. How many doors had slammed themselves shut in her face? And now he was responsible for one more. He knew in the end, she wouldn’t choose him, but if the idea of choice and the freedom to assert her own will was what she wanted, he’d move the heavens and hells to please her. There had to be a way. There  _ had _ to, and for her, he would search the world over until it was found. 

 

He lifted her chin, cradling her head within his hands. “Stop,” he said gently, “I’ll find a way. You’ll have your choice.”  Kissing her lips softly, he felt her melt against him, her tears drying beneath the pads of his thumbs as he breathed the words into her mouth again.

 

“I’ll find a way.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical inspiration was better placed at the end this time and should carry us through for the next chapter or so. 
> 
> Imagine Dragons - Believer  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9MJAg0VDgO0


End file.
